Wednesday's Child
by Mars Carter
Summary: "Are you satisfied with an average life?" No. She isn't. So when the CIA tries to recruit Irene Acosta for their new women's program, she agrees. And when they give her a mission in Istanbul, she agrees. But then they tell her that she's working with a team-one East German, one KGB agent, and one American-and Irene isn't so sure about the extraordinary life anymore.
1. Prologue

**Title:** _Wednesday's Child  
_ **Author:** Mars Carter  
 **Rating:** T (possibly M later on)  
 **Pairings:** Napoleon Solo/OFC, Gaby Teller/Illya Kuryakin  
 **Summary:** "Are you satisfied with an average life?" No. She isn't. So when the CIA tries to recruit Irene Acosta for their new women's program, she agrees. And when they give her a mission in Istanbul, she agrees. But then they tell her that she's working with a team-one East German, one KGB agent, and one American-and Irene isn't so sure about the extraordinary life anymore.  
 **Warnings:** Violence, sex, mentions of rape in the past, attempted sexual assault, etc. If there are warnings specific to a chapter, I'll list them at the beginning.  
 **A/N:** This is the first TMFU fic I've written. It's Napoleon/OC, and while there are no canon characters in this chapter or the next, it'll pretty much revolve around them and my OC once they're introduced.

 **Prologue**

 _" I have nothing in this place for me."_ -The Neighbourhood

Irene is a name that means "peace."

Which is ironic, considering.

The year is 1951. Irene Acosta is working as a waitress in a trashy little diner along a Florida highway. She _looks_ white. She _looks_ American. She _looks_ perfectly innocent.

What the customers that enter the diner don't know, is that the hands serving them their sandwiches and milkshakes are the same hands that have killed six men. The hands that she wipes the table with are, in reality, filthy with the blood of six men.

But that was then. This is now.

Then was Cuba; _then_ was her father and a gun waved around carelessly; _then_ was home; _then_ was the night stars she used to make wishes on. But _then_ was also snapped necks and bruised jaws, and large, _large_ hands running up her body. Hands that should not have been there, and were later cut off.

But that is no more.

Now is America; _now_ is enduring the men who seem to think that slapping her ass will make her like them; _now_ is the dumb little hat and the skirts and the heels; _now_ is where her father is no more; it's cash under the table by a manager not asking questions; it's a tiny apartment with another woman. But _now_ is also freedom; _now_ is no more guns, no more men trying to get revenge on her for what she's done to them. _Now_ is hope.

So Irene works. She serves privileged teens their milkshakes and sleeps on the floor when that's done. And when the morning comes, she'll repeat.

But her hands still have blood on them. It seems like they always will.

* * *

1957.

A lot has changed.

Irene doesn't wear the skimpy dress or the stupid hat anymore. She wears beautiful clothes, and lots of jewelry.

She doesn't understand why people are so desperate to rise above the middle class. Can't they see how wonderful life is? Can't they see how beautiful their rings are, how nice it is to be able to eat three times a day? How great it is to wear nice dresses and curl their hair?

Can't they see how _lucky_ they are?

At night, she lies in bed with a man named Drew. He's got light hair and blue eyes, and he comes home smelling of perfume that isn't Irene's, but she doesn't care. As long as he keeps paying for her food and her house and her, she's happy.

* * *

Until she isn't. 1961.

Her accent has almost entirely faded, but Irene can still speak Spanish.

She's befriended the women on her block. They sit and gossip and get their hair done together, and sometimes they ask her when she and her husband will have children, and Irene _wants_ to tell them the truth. She wants to say that she doesn't love her husband and he doesn't love her either, but instead she just smiles pleasantly and goes, "We're trying."

That satisfies them.

Satisfaction.

By 1961, she understands their need to claw their way up to the upper class. Well, she understands some of it.

Irene doesn't get the need for more money. Why do they need more money? They've got too many pairs of shoes to wear in a week. They've got hair done nicely only to stay home all day. She doesn't understand the need for _more_ luxuries.

But she does understand the boredom. Waking up at six a.m., cooking breakfast, cleaning the house, having lunch with Susan or Cheryl or some other woman from the neighborhood, drinking a glass of wine, cooking dinner, cleaning the kitchen, bathing, going to bed. It's all a _routine_. It's so _boring._ An endless cycle of serving a man and not getting thanked. Her life is so damn dull.

It's a Sunday in June when something in the universe shifts.

Irene is walking to church, briefly remembering how, at six, she'd wished on a star for an extraordinary life. Her heels click against the sidewalk. To her left, Stacy is gossiping about Lucille's husband while Mary whispers viciously back to her. Irene doesn't quite understand—these women are all friends, aren't they?

They arrive at the chapel, where a group of blondes harmonize songs about God and other things that Irene doesn't believe in. She feels much like the children in the pew across from her—only, she doesn't get to squirm around and kick her feet back and forth and close her eyes. She only gets to sit.

After what feels like an eternity, she makes her way down the aisle. People must notice how bad she is at…well, religion. Irene is constantly late, and usually leaves as soon as possible. Her donations are small, she never closes her eyes during prayer, and not once has she gone to confession.

Even God can't wash away the blood lodged underneath her fingernails.

Sunday mornings after church, Irene gets a pastry from one of the bakeries nearby. Then, she heads home to check on her husband—he's usually hungover on Sundays—and spends the remainder of the day reading. Or sometimes, if she's sure Drew is asleep, she'll lie on the carpet in the living room doing sit ups and push-ups. If Drew didn't come home Saturday night, she'll practice swinging a knife around in their bedroom, where there are no windows facing the street.

But this Sunday is not an average Sunday. As Irene steps out the church's doors, she spots two men standing off to the side. They suddenly stop their conversation to look up at her. Irene expects them to turn back to each other almost immediately, but instead, they head towards her.

Both the men are handsome. One has glasses and he's wearing a sharp looking suit; the other has slightly disheveled hair and he's skipped the jacket. Irene can't blame him—it's hot out, and her skin craves shade. She convinced Drew to buy more fans recently, which is good considering the rapid temperature rise.

The one in the glasses intercepts her path. Irene gives him a small smile. "Um…hello."

"Hi, Mrs. Reynolds."

(Irene didn't want to change her name.)

The man continues. "I'm Johnny Weaver, with the CIA. This is my partner, Robert Rhodes."

Her first thought is _they've found me. They're going to send me back, and the other ones will be there waiting for me. They'll be waiting to kill me._

She imagines that her face looks terrified at the moment, but she doesn't quite know what to do about that.

"Would you mind walking with us for a moment?" Weaver requests.

Irene nods slowly. "Sure." She's still wearing her frilly church clothes, and they're growing increasingly uncomfortable in the heat. But Irene walks with the two strange men in suits anyways.

"Mrs. Reynolds, I'm going to start off by saying that we're aware of your past."

There's a pang of panic in Irene's gut, and she winds back her purse so that she can hit him and escape.

Rhodes grabs onto her wrist and holds it at her waist. Irene twists her arm around until he's forced to let go, and then she tries to hit him again, grunting as she swings her fist forward.

"Wait!" Weaver says, holding up a hand. "You're not in any trouble, Missus. The opposite, actually."

Irene stops struggling for a moment, but her hands are still balled into fists. Prepared to fight back if she needs to, but not quite on the offensive.

"We're aware of your skillset, and we'd be interested in recruiting you."

Irene shakes her head, sure that this must be a joke. Things like this don't just _happen._ People don't just recruit people for the CIA. Especially not women. "I'm a woman, though," Irene insists.

"Listen, let's sit down, I can explain all the details to you, my partner can let go of your wrist, and we'll pay for your lunch."

Narrowing her eyes at him, Irene grits her teeth. "Fine."

Twenty minutes later, they've arrived at one of the bakeries. Irene sits on the outside chair, easiest to escape from. The two men don't object, so either they're very stupid, they aren't a threat, or they think they can take her out even if she has an advantage. "You'd work as a field agent," Weaver explains. "Undercover ops, mostly, since people are less likely to suspect a woman."

"Are there other women working for the CIA?" Irene asks, brow furrowed. Her dark hair sticks to the back of her neck, despite the cool inside of the bakery.

Rhodes and Weaver look at each other before turning back to her. "No," they say at once. Rhodes continues, "The US did send a lot of girl spies into Germany during the war. Most of the ops were successful, so the CIA is interested in launching a small program for women. You'd be the first subject."

"Subject? What am I, a science experiment?"

The two men share another exasperated look, and Irene slouches in her chair. Posture is exhausting. She used to have a perfect spine, the habit instilled by her father's insistent _you'll miss the target if you, yourself, aren't moving gracefully._

"Not a science experiment. But, if your training and mission go successful the program might grow."

Irene cocks her head to the side and folds her arms across her chest. "How do you gentlemen feel about women in the CIA?"

Weaver opens his mouth to talk, looking annoyed at her words, but Rhodes cuts him off. "It doesn't matter how we feel. We were given orders to recruit you."

Staring at the duo across from her, Irene begins to chew on her bottom lip, scraping away a bit of the already-fading lipstick. "I have a husband to take care of." No she doesn't. While Drew is a completely useless man-child, he had money and mistresses, and she was just a fixture to maintain a social reputation. There really was no reason to stay, except the fear of encountering the other ones again. Do big, scary men herd together like cows? Do they all know one another? Irene plays with the pendant on the necklace Drew bought for their five-year anniversary.

Weaver rolls his eyes. "Your husband is cheating on you with about a dozen different women." He pauses. Looks like he's bracing himself for a flooding of tears.

What he gets instead, is, "Don't you think I know that?"

"So you want to pick a deadbeat husband over a job opportunity?"

Irene shrugs. "He buys me things."

Weaver suddenly bursts out laughing. It sounds like he's having a heart attack or being strangulated. "Can't argue with that. I guess we should go. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Reynolds."

Rhodes stands up and starts to follow his partner to the exit. Before he goes, though, he looks Irene dead in the eyes and asks, "Are you satisfied with an average life?"

The words are like a blow to the gut.

Is this really her eternity? The perfect rectangular lawns and _well are you pregnant yet?_ questions until she gives in?

Six-year-old her wanted something great. Something that was worth it.

Suburbia was not worth it.

Irene jumps out of her seat, the chair nearly toppling over. The bell rings fiercely as she yanks the door open and rushes out. "No!" she calls to Rhodey. "I'm not satisfied. I want the job."

Weaver smiles thinly. "Our flight leaves at fifteen-hundred. We'll pick you up at thirteen-hundred."


	2. bite-back blues

**A/N:** Here's chapter one. Make sure to review with your thoughts! Still none of the man canon characters here, I'm still finishing up with exposition.

 **Warnings:** Torture, murder, death, implied sexual assault, innuendo, etc.

 **Chapter 1**

" _I'm a wanderess."_ -Halsey

Irene has never been so sure of anything in her life.

She proves capable with most of the weapons, though it takes her a few weeks to polish her skills. Murder is like riding a bicycle—you never really forget how to do it, even after a long time.

And it has certainly been a long time. Man #6 was eleven years ago. Man #5 just a month before. One with a knife, the other with a gun.

The men in the training facility like to call her a lesbian. Irene is pretty sure it's because she won't sleep with them, and their fragile little hearts must search for something else to blame her rejection on. _She must not want to sleep with me because she doesn't like men._ It's a pity, really.

On the other hand, though, she thinks that they might call her a lesbian because she's doing a man's job. Women aren't supposed to drop-kick criminals. They're supposed to bake pies and curl their hair and wear heels while they vacuum.

On the third hand (this hypothetical is actually an octopus), she thinks that they get off on the idea of her with another woman. They're pigs. She hates them.

But she takes comfort in the fact that while they've spent most of their time struggling with guns and fumbling with knives, she's mastered ropes and learned how to suffocate a man twice her size. She's gotten so very good at this.

Irene passes the psych exams. There are three more tests before she is cleared for field work:

 **1\. She must pass a written tests on the various CIA protocols  
2\. She must pass an undercover test to make sure she can lie  
3\. She must pass a torture test. **

The written test shouldn't be too hard, except Irene's not too good at reading in English. The only experience she has with it, really, is from her waitressing days, where she taught herself how to spell the various menu items correctly, and from the few times she actually read along in church.

(mostly, she just mumbled about all the things she'd rather be doing. Speaking the Nicene Creed would be lying, and she'd prefer to be defiant rather than dishonest).

The second test shouldn't be too difficult, depending on the situation. Irene's been lying for ten years. What's a few weeks?

The third is the one she fears. Of course she does; she isn't a complete birdbrain. Why type of torture will it be? Will they hold her head underwater? Will they draw a knife across her skin? Will they try and force someone upon her?

The first two? She can probably handle it.

The third? No.

 _I have to pass the test though_ , she reminds herself. Deep down, she hopes they'll get the torture test over first. Get it done with, leave it in the past.

That's not what happens, though.

The written test is administered on October the 14 of 1961. She spends the entire month of August with a phonics book, learning what words mean and how they look written down. They she spends October studying the actual protocols.

Most of them are common sense— _if the agent is in an undercover operation, they will abandon their cover only if dire circumstances force them to_. But some of them are more difficult— _in the event of a fire, the agent will save first their asset, then their partner, then their target, who must be apprehended in a form that makes them incapable of escaping or causing malice._

There are so many words in some of them that they take up the entire column. Irene spends all morning training physically, all afternoon studying the 400-page stack of paper, and in the evenings, she occasionally goes to the bars nearby the facility. She finds herself liking tropical fruit drinks with terrible names. She likes to dance with the handsome men that are just as noncommittal as her. She likes to put on nice makeup and smile and pretend like she can't kill them if she wants to.

She passes the exam, just barely. Her 71 percent score is mostly due to the fact that the person grading the test couldn't understand her written answers. But Irene is satisfied with _just_ passing.

Once, she goes on a mission with two agents, and while she is only there to shadow them and learn about what it's like in the field, she finds the experience very exciting. Irene knows that she shouldn't enjoy sprinting around with a weapon, but she does. The feeling of power, of how she's doing something to help her country, is overwhelmingly intoxicating. She now calls America her country; not Cuba. Years of a nonstop mantra— _American American American_ —did nothing to help. But joining the CIA did. Protecting people did.

On November 25, she has her undercover exam. The mission is to steal a file on from one of the richest weapons companies in the U.S.

Irene gets to go to dinner in a nice dress and pretend that a handsome agent is her husband.

Once again, she's never been so sure of anything in her life.

Things are going smoothly. After dinner, while everyone's dancing, Irene will conveniently get lost upstairs and distract whoever comes in with kisses and touches while her partner steals the file.

But things do not stay so calm.

When she is inevitably caught, the kisses don't work and the knocks her out with the butt of his gun. She's carried to the basement of the mansion, stripped, bound, and gagged.

They torture her.

First with knuckles, fists against her cheekbones and breaking her nose, and hitting her over and over in the jaw.

But still, she doesn't speak.

(This clears up any doubts the CIA might have had about this company's intentions.)

But then, they take out a knife.

"Who do you work for?" they ask her.

 _Stay strong. You can survive this. You've survived much worse._

She stares blankly ahead, and the burly man doing the torturing kneels down to her level. "Answer me." Still, she ignores him. So the man takes the knife and holds it close to her throat. Irene leans back as far as possible, stretching her neck out. Her heart races in her chest and there are blue and black spots creeping in from the edge of her field of vision.

She's passed out twice, already, woken up to the feeling of cold water being dumped on her face. One of these times she might try and control the jumping so that they think she's still out, and they'll stop causing pain.

Irene stares into the dead blue eyes of the man in front of her. He stares right back, and then he moves the knife to her collarbone, drawing a line with his weapon from her neck to her shoulder. A strangled noise escapes her mouth as her neck begins to sting. It _burns._ Badly. She can feel the hot liquid leaking out of the cut, and she watches as it spills down over her breast.

And then she passes out again, this time for much longer.

* * *

While she's unconscious, she thinks about the six lives she's ended.

The first was named Tomas.

Irene loved him.

Irene didn't want to kill him. He begged her to. And so she pulled out her dagger and looked him in the eyes, and she stabbed him in the chest. Irene held him as he died. She didn't cry, just held his head to her chest and _sh-sh-shhhh_ 'd him until his heart stopped beating.

 _She didn't want to kill him._

He was her first love.

Irene's about to think about Person #2, José, when she hears a voice in the distance pulling her out of her memories. "Agent. Agent Acosta."

Agent? She's not Agent. She's Irene.

But as the fog starts to clear, she remembers that _yes_ , she is Agent. She is Agent Acosta. The only person that calls her Irene is the bartender down the street.

When she manages to navigate her way to waking up, Irene is hit with a dull pain in her shoulder. She opens her eyes to inspect, seeing nothing but a large white bandage covering the wound. She's lying in a bed, and there's woman in a dress fussing with the bedding at her ankles. "Oh! You're awake," she exclaims. "I'll go get them."

There are two men with her when she returns—Saunders and a doctor. The doctor begins to check her, while Saunders just whistles lowly and puts his hands in his pockets. "That was one hell of a show, kiddo."

Irene doesn't like him calling her kiddo. She's not a kid. The nickname is too paternal. He is not her father.

"I'd say that qualifies as passing your fifth exam. So as soon as you've healed, we'll assign you your first mission."

All negative thoughts rush out the window as Irene sits up in bed. She grins, despite the sharp pain shooting through her shoulder. "Really?" she exclaims, wide-eyed and youthful.

Saunders nods, gives her what seems to be an impressed look, and then leaves.

* * *

It takes one month for her to get back into physical shape. Her face heals much more slowly than her shoulder, which, once sewn up, scabbed and scarred and began to fade. The mark is perfectly straight until it reaches the end, where it curls up a little bit. Irene finds this little imperfection both comforting and frustrating for no particular reason at all.

Once she's in shape again, Saunders calls her into the briefing room, and launches into a story about a spy named Napoleon and a Russian named Illya and an Asset named Gaby and how they all fell in love had to work together to stop Gaby's insane Uncle Rudy. And then Saunders continues to say that the three formed an international spy network called U.N.C.L.E.—United Network for something or other. He tells Irene that the network is led by a man named Alexander Waverly (British) and that he is a good guy but a terrible golfer.

Irene's not sure why Saunders is sharing this information with her—especially the golf bit. She's not going to play golf with him, so what does it matter?

"I'm sending you to U.N.C.L.E.," he concludes after finishing the thrilling tale. Irene blinks away her daydream and looks up at her superior.

"What?" she demands, and then adds a meek, "sir."

"I'm assigning you to U.N.C.L.E. Your first mission is in Istanbul."

"Istanbul?" Irene repeats, except it's not really a question. More like she's saying it out loud like that will help her to understand. "Istanbul…Turkey?"

"Yeah, Istanbul, Turkey. Your flight leaves tomorrow at noon. Here's your cover."

He slides a file folder across the conference table at her, and then leaves. Irene sits in the room for a bit, reading over the case.

Apparently there's a rich man in Istanbul that has a daughter who's marrying another rich man. But her fiancé is a man that wants to use her money to run experiments on people, so their mission is to kill him. Irene's cover is as a college student named Doreen. She's travelling with her friend, Jack, who is a possible investor for the father's money. The other two team members-Russian and East-German, are engaged.

Her first mission is an assassination.

Irene almost smiles—she would if it weren't for the utter direness of the situation. She's never been so sure of anything in her life.

 **a/n:** please review! Feedback feeds the muse.


	3. curious companions

**Warnings:** Mentions of "the other ones," Irene thinks about her past, there's some stuff about mistresses that idk if it might offend someone.  
 **A/N:** YOU GUYS. The response to this story has been amazing so far. I'm so excited honestly. I'm glad to see that everyone likes it! Irene's going to start kicking ass soon, I promise. There's a little bit more setup to go, but the pacing will get quicker eventually. ALSO two more things. 1. I made a cover isn't it pretty. 2. If you wanna see gifs and stuff for the fic, my tumblr is the-woman-from-uncle and my tag for the fic is /tagged/fic: wednesday's child.

 **Chapter 2**

" _The fire is coming, so I think we should run."_ -Daughter

Irene's practically sleepwalking by the time she reaches the hotel in Istanbul. Her case is causing her shoulder an insane amount of pain, and she wants nothing more than to collapse onto a bed and nap.

Somewhere over the ocean, Irene decided that flying was not her thing. The experience was both nauseating and terrifying, and she hoped to hell that there wouldn't be a lot of it involved in the job.

Then again, she was being assigned to an international network. Obviously there was some travel involved.

If Irene weren't feeling so very terrible, she would've noticed how glamorous the lobby is. It's got golden décor, plush velvet furniture, and the entire thing seems to give off a gentle golden glow. There's a massive crystal chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling.

Irene drags herself over to the front desk and drops the suitcase down with a bang. The lady behind the counter jumps about a foot in the air, gasping. "Oh!" she exclaims, holding a hand against her chest in surprise. When she finally registers Irene's presence, she's back to being chipper and professional. "Welcome to the Bir Otel. Name?"

She feels like she should smile—she should reciprocate the sunny attitude that the lady gives off. But she can't. She's too damn tired.

So Irene answers with a bitter, "Kathleen Danvers." Her lips are upturned in a stiff scowl and her eyes stare deadly at the other woman's face. The cheerful expression she wears flickers the tiniest bit, but she hides it by looking down at the guestbook. "D…D…Danvers. Okay. Room 606." She digs around in her drawer for a few moments before producing a key. "And we'll have concierge take your bags up for you."

"Thanks," Irene answers flatly, taking the key and looping the lanyard over her thumb. The lady behind the counter signals a bellboy, who appears at Irene's side within moments. He lifts the suitcase from her hand, and grunts when he realizes how heavy it is.

Of course it's heavy. She's keeping her files in there, all disguised as diaries. And her knives are wrapped up in her dresses. Saunders wouldn't let her take her gun—something about airline codes. But he did manage to get her through security without being caught smuggling knives.

"Enjoy your stay!" the woman from the counter says, waving, and Irene raises a hand for a moment, before dropping it and heading towards the elevator.

The bellboy is silent as the room slides up through the building. Irene looks over at him, studying his young face. He can't be more than nineteen, and he's thin. His arm shakes from lifting the bag. "You can put it down, if you want," she says, humanity overpowering irritation. The boy looks hesitant, so she reaches over and pulls it out of his hand, setting it on the floor until they reach the sixth level. Once the elevator arrives, she lifts up the suitcase and drags it along the floor of the hallway until she reaches the sixth door. The bellboy looks unsure of himself, so Irene waves him off. She takes the key and slips it into the lock, jiggling it around for a moment or so before it gives and the door swings open.

"Oh my god," she grunts, dropping the suitcase in the living area…living area. There's a living area? Does that mean there's a separate bedroom?

All this, just to herself?

Irene quite likes being a spy.

She crosses the floor to the couch, collapsing on it for a moment before rolling off and onto the carpet. She army-crawls towards the double-doors she guesses lead to the bedroom, placing a hand on each silver handle.

When Irene pulls them open, she screams.

Because there is a man standing in the room.

He turns to look over his shoulder, looking only slightly alarmed by her reaction.

"Who the hell are you?" Irene demands, glaring at him with tired eyes.

The man turns around, abandoning his half-unpacked suitcase and stepping towards her. He holds out a hand. "Napoleon Solo. You must be Miss Acosta."

Irene doesn't shake his hand. She just stares at it for a moment. "Why are you in my room?"

Napoleon tilts his head to the side. Gives a little half smile. "Didn't you read the protocol?"

"Of course I read the protocol," Irene snaps, placing her hands on her hips. Of course she read the protocol. She knows that her name is Kathleen Danvers, and she's travelling with her boss, Andrew to Istanbul so he can look into business dealings. She knows that Kathleen's middle name is Eleanor, and that Kathleen has terrible taste in dresses. She knows this because she hates the dress she has to wear. There's a layer of scratchy fabric on the inside that chafes needlessly at her legs.

Holding his hands up defensively, he asks a follow-up question. "Did you read the updated protocol?"

Irene narrows her eyes. "What updated protocol?"

He smirks. "I guess that answers my question." Napoleon returns to his suitcase, continuing the process of unpacking. Irene follows him over, standing on the side of the bed. (One bed. There's a single bed in the hotel room). "Commander Waverly encountered some issues while trying to secure us an invitation to the Ataman's gala. So he had to tell them that you and I were romantically involved. And since we're too old to be dating, and we don't have marriage records, he had to tell them that you're my mistress."

Irene splutters for a second before craning her neck towards him. _"Your mistress?_ " she asks, seething with anger. "Your _mistress?_ "

She's not a mistress. She would _never_ do that to another woman. She would never do this. This is not her.

No.

She's not the mistress.

Kathleen is the mistress.

She just has to pretend to be Kathleen.

 _It's just pretend._

 _You just have to lie._

She's a good liar. So she decides that maybe this is okay.

It's not as if she's got a choice in the matter, though. She has to follow orders or they'll send her back to Drew, who's probably wondering what in seven hells has happened to her. And then she'll have to explain.

 _"_ _Oh yes, I'm a failed spy."_

No. She doesn't want to go back. She can't go back.

Or even worse, they'll send her back to Cuba. Back to the others with their vicious smiles and curled blades.

She does not want to go back to the others. She doesn't want to see them again. _Tomas. José. Victor. Ju—_

No. She can't see the other ones. She can't think about their causes.

"…Miss Acosta?"

Irene snaps out of her haze and focuses her vision to see Solo standing in front of her, a look of concern on his face. "What?" she barks. He lifts an eyebrow, and makes a face as if to say, _okay then_.

"I'm supposed to bring you down to meet Teller and Peril," he says, flipping the top of his suitcase shut and buckling it. He slides the bag under the bed neatly, and Irene wonders it's possible for him to look so neat despite having travelled directly from Rome earlier in the day.

Huh.

"Do I have to be your mistress when we walk together?" she wonders out loud. Napoleon puts on his jacket and straightens the lapels before he answers.

"Yes. I'm afraid that unless we're in the middle of open gunfire or in the hotel room, we've got to maintain our cover."

Irene nods, mentally noting that Napoleon answers questions straightforwardly and doesn't tease her like the men at the training facility did. Her face flushes with anger whenever she remembers their cruel, bellowing laughs. _Of course a girl_ _wouldn't know that! Boy, would I be lucky to marry her. Get to own a stupid little lady like that._

Irene grits her teeth, setting her jaw in a line. But then, she remembers that they're still back at the training facility, struggling to maintain a good form when they kick.

She's in Istanbul, preparing to kill someone.

And then she isn't as furious with them.

Napoleon steps out of the hotel room, holding an arm out for Irene to link hers through. She does.

It reminds her of her wedding.

It's funny—all the romantic things she's ever done have either been lies or forced upon her.

Irene smiles down at the floor, and then back up at Solo to study his face. He's got dark hair and a nice jaw, and his eyes are a pretty shade of blue. When he notices her staring and looks down at her, she averts her gaze. But she can still tell that he's studying her, just like she was studying him.

The pair walk down the hall in silence, and then when they're closed into the elevator, Irene turns to him. "How long has this team been together?"

Napoleon raises an amused eyebrow before looking down at his watch. "Officially? About six hours."

Six hours? Some team. "What about unofficially?" she inquires.

Napoleon creases his forehead as he thinks. "Three, four days."

"Oh."

And Irene knows that's a dumb answer, and that it's hard to come up with a response to "oh," but it's all she can think of saying at the moment.

The elevator arrives on the ninth floor and Irene steps out, cursing whoever invented heels. They're pinching her feet and the _click, click_ is making her wince. It sounds like scissors. _Snip, snap, snip, snap._

She remembers the sound of scissors. She remembers them from making that sign for the church fundraiser with Betty, and she remembers them from when a cruel man sliced the locks of hair away from her head, leaving her with patchy, bald flesh.

Now her hair is healthy, from the nice shampoos that she bought with Drew's money. It falls just below her shoulders, and sometimes she curls it, sometimes she does it in waves. Sometimes, when she's lazy, she does nothing and it hangs pin straight from its roots.

Irene lifts her hand self-consciously to touch the back of her skull. She slides her fingers into the base of her neckline and runs them through the locks, just to reassure herself that they're there.

Napoleon stops in front of room 913 and knocks on the door before testing the handle. It's unlocked. When Irene steps inside, she can see two people standing about a foot away from one another. One, and incredibly well-built man, looks incredibly frustrated, and the other, a tiny woman in an orange dress, looks down disappointedly at her white shoes. After a few moments, she looks up. "Solo," she greets, nodding her head. "And you're Agent Acosta?"

Irene nods at the woman, and when she sticks her hand out for a handshake, Irene decides to cooperate.

"I'm Gaby Teller." The East-German. "This is Illya. Illya, say hello."

She instructs him the same way Patsy used to instruct her son, Ronnie, when she couldn't find him a babysitter and he had to come to lunch. _Ronnie, say hello to Mrs. Reynolds. Ronnie, remember your manners. Ronnie, behave or you can't use the train set anymore_.

The giant blonde man nods wordlessly to acknowledge her. Irene makes a face, before realizing that that was how she'd responded to Solo earlier. She slowly, trying not to look ashamed, returns her face back to their normal features.

Gaby rolls her eyes at Illya. "Don't mind him," she assures Irene. "He'll get over himself eventually."

"The gala's tomorrow, right?" Irene asks. The time change and the flight have messed up her internal clock, and she's not sure what day it is anymore.

Gaby nods, smiling a little bit. Illya pouts in the corner, and she smacks his arm. "Don't be like that, Peril," Solo soothes mockingly.

"Shut up, Cowboy," the man hisses, his thick Russian accent becoming apparent. Napoleon smirks, like he enjoys provoking Kuryakin.

Gaby rolls her eyes again. "They're like children," she mutters, and Irene smiles the slightest bit. She watches in fascination as Solo smiles cheekily and sidles up next to Kuryakin, and then as Kuryakin shrugs with enough power to knock the dark-haired man back a few feet.

The hotel phone rings, and Gaby stands back for a few moments. Irene wonders if she should go pick it up, but then Gaby steps forward, lifting the receiver off the line and twirling the cord around nimble fingers. "Yes…okay. Yes. We'll be down in a minute."

"What is it?" Napoleon asks.

"Waverly wants us to meet him downstairs for a briefing."

Irene lags behind, watching as Illya and Gaby stand close by each other. She knows they're supposed to be engaged; that's their cover. But there's something genuine about the way they act around each other.

 _Is this what romance looks like?_ Irene wonders. Or is it an act?

She supposes that the unfortunate part about being around liars, is that you can never tell what's real.

 **A/N:** I know this was more of a filler, but I think that it was really important for it to be it's own chapter. The next chapter is exposition, and then things will pick up after that. Please leave a review letting me know what you think!


	4. love, analytical thinking & other things

**a/n:** idk what I did to deserve these reviews but thank you so much  
 **warnings:** murder, death, prostitution, implied dub-con in a flashback, abuse, etc.

 **Chapter 3**

 _"_ _Blood still stains when the sheets are washed."_ –Melanie Martinez

"Alexander Waverly," the man says, shaking Irene's hand. He gives her a pleasant smile and then pulls her chair out.

The five are sitting in a small restaurant in their lobby. It's busy enough that people won't be able to hear what they're saying, but not so crowded that they have to be worried about not seeing threats.

The briefing isn't too much new information—Waverly is a nice man, as Saunders said, but she hasn't been given any information that supports or contradicts the comment about his golf skills. He's serious without being scary. He's polite and professional and he fills her in on anything that she's missed—namely, when she and Gaby will be getting their dresses for the banquet tomorrow, when the rehearsal dinner and wedding are taking place, the overall mission plan, and her personal focus—keeping Hasan's daughter, Maya, safe.

Back in the room, she takes a bath. The hot water soothes her aching muscles, and she peers curiously at the tiny bottles of soap provided by the hotel. They're too small to last more than three days, so she makes a note to go buy some tomorrow.

She falls asleep thinking about what the Turkish currency is. She can't remember what it's called, or the conversion formula. And then her thought begin to meander.

To Cuba, to dress-shopping tomorrow, to a large wardrobe. To Gaby's lovely hair.

 _Hair._

 _Victor cut her hair off when she was fourteen._

 _And she was left bald for almost four months. Irene had to wear a scarf around her skull to keep from getting sick._

 _Her father taught her how to use that flimsy length piece of fabric as a weapon. It empowered her._

 _On her fifteenth birthday, she put his lessons into action._

 _They found him dangling from a tree branch three days later, and wrapped around his neck, crushing his windpipes, was a pink scarf._

Irene can remember that day oh-so-clearly. The weather was humid, and sticky air clung to her skin. It inched between her ratty shirt and it made her skin sweaty. And the hot temperature had done nothing to help with the stench of Victor's rotting body.

Maybe she should've felt guilty. In church, they sometimes told her about the Ten Commandments; about "thou shalt not kill."

But she wouldn't have had to end his life had he not wronged her in the first place.

A sharp rapping against the bathroom door brings her from her thoughts, and she sits up in the tub. The water, now barely lukewarm, sloshes over the edge of the tub, causing a puddle to form around the edge.

"What?" Irene yelps, peering over the side of the tub to observe the damage.

"Are you almost finished?" Napoleon questions from outside. Irene's gaze shoots over to the clock on the wall. God. Seven at night. She's been in here for 3 hours.

"Yes—sorry," she shouts back, fumbling to get out of the tub and wrap herself in a towel. She yanks the plug out of the drain and drags a bath mat over to cover the mess she's made.

When she throws open the door, she finds Napoleon standing there, looking out the window. He turns his gaze to her, and suddenly, goosebumps begin to form on her skin. She's acutely aware of the way his eyes rake over her fairly bared body, and it makes her feel something unexplainable in her stomach. Something unrecognizable.

She stares curiously up at him—he's by all means handsome, all parts of him clearly fit the norm for "attractive," but really, Irene's not interested.

But his face doesn't hurt to look at, so she stares for a little bit more.

And then, the bath makes a clunking noise as the last of the water sinks down, and Irene remembers that the only thing covering her body is a towel.

Sidestepping Napoleon, she begins the walk across the living room to her case. She's halfway there when she looks back, and he's there standing in the doorway watching her go. He smirks, and Irene, feeling a bit more confident, spreads her lips into a sly grin to meet his gaze head on.

She turns back, not knowing what else to do, and heads towards the bedroom. Irene closes the door and changes into her pajamas, before collapsing onto the bed. Napoleon can do what he wants—she doesn't care.

Irene lies her head back onto the dense pillow, shuts her eyes, and falls asleep.

* * *

It turns out that Napoleon didn't sleep in the bed, as the next morning, after waking up far too early, Irene finds him lounged out on the couch. It's not as if he looks uncomfortable—the thing is enormous and plushy, and he's sleeping pretty heavily by the looks of it.

Irene's quiet as she walks over to the restroom. Napoleon's a spy, sure, but Irene's light on her feet. It's something she learned much, much before the other ones. Back before father's grieving drove him to lash out at her, with mad fists and, later, the soothing mantra of _"sh-sh-sh…I didn't mean it. Be quiet, Irene."_

No.

Her silent moves come from when father was out on the couch and mother was in her room with someone else—other men. Paying off her debts with her body.

Irene sometimes wonders if father was actually her father. Maybe it was one of mami's shadows—there during the night, moving with heavy legs and too-loud cries that jostled Irene from her sleep. Maybe it was another stranger, a man who came and went and probably doesn't know she exists.

She's old enough now to understand what her mother was doing. She understands enough to be angry about how her mother was treated. And she's angry enough that she could kill the men who did it to her.

Irene can't help but let her demons eat away at her. If she knew how, she'd stop them from sinking their teeth into her thoughts.

Shutting the bathroom door, Irene rests her back against the white wood. Her pajamas hang loosely over her frame and she looks down at her feet.

Mentally, she begins to list the things she must do today: **1.** Get dresses with Gaby, **2.** Go to the gala, **3.** Lunch with Napoleon, **4.** Get her gun from Waverly.

It's all too strange how years of going out of her mind has created order and sanity in Irene's head. Is it possible for boredom to drive someone to organization?

Possibly.

After showering, Irene heads over to her yet-to-be-unpacked suitcase and pulls a dress out of it. It's a hideous off-pink color, so she drops it back into the suitcase, pulling out a red day-dress instead.

Napoleon's stirred from his rest, and he lies motionless on the couch. Irene heads over and looks down at him curiously. He hums a little under his breath, eyelids still shut, hair looking mussed. Moments later, he seems to notice her eyes trained on his face, and Napoleon blinks open one eye, staring up at her. "Good morning…?" he greets. His voice is all too rumbly and low, and it sounds rugged and beautiful.

Irene remembers that she's staring, so she breaks eye contact. "Sorry."

She steps away.

And then she turns back. "You can have the bed tonight. I'll take the couch. Or if you don't mind we can share the bed." After all, it's been ten years sleeping inches away from a man she does not love—what's a few days? "I'm going to go meet see Teller."

Waverly managed to construct covers for the four of them that were interconnected—apparently something happened in Rome that might've been helped by better communication. Napoleon wasn't supposed to know Kuryakin, and yet, they showed up together constantly.

Irene's not too sure about the specifics.

A few minutes later, she arrives at Teller and Kuryakin's door. Three knocks, and she can here muffled footsteps crossing the hall. It's Gaby who opens the door, dressed and with hair done, but makeup not yet done. "Good morning," she grumbles with a frown. Her face looks disheveled and groggy, as if she's only just woken up.

"Morning," Irene says, trying not to sound too cheery or too apathetic. Gaby swings out of the doorway, letting Irene step inside and sit on the couch. This hotel room looks much more lived it. There's a set of teacups in the corner that're half-full; a floppy hat is sitting on the table, next to a newsboy cap; the items on the coffee table have been swept to the side to make room for a folded up newspaper.

It looks so much less _stiff_ than Irene's room. She feels a tad envious and the familiarity that Gaby and Illya seem to have, but she ignores this.

When she turns to the side, she collides head on with a frantic Kuryakin. He stares, stony faced, down at her. "Watch where you go," he snaps shortly, harshness emphasized by his clipped tone.

Irene narrows her eyes at him, but steps aside. _Asshole_ , she thinks to herself. She can't imagine why anybody likes Illya—he probably has very few friends, for a good reason too.

A voice in her head reminds Irene that she's not really in a place to judge, but she ignores the words and smiles at Gaby. "Your fake fiancé is a jerk," she states matter-of-factly.

The shorter woman casts a lazy glance over her shoulder. "I know," she answers, just loud enough for Illya to hear. The Russian giant turns his irritated gaze on the two of them, and Irene meets him head on with an annoyingly innocent smile.

She's playing with fire, she knows. But some crazy part of her derives a tiny bit of pleasure from pain.

Illya is rushing around the hotel room collecting things into his bag, and Gaby collapses heavily on the couch. "He's impossible to sleep next to. I don't know why we only have one bed."

Irene tilts her head and leans to the side to see Illya more clearly. He's built like a brick wall, so she empathizes with Gaby.

"What about you?" Gaby asks Irene. "Did you sleep well?"

Shrugging her shoulders, Irene replies, "I was already exhausted. But Napoleon took the couch."

Gaby scowls, and then leans her head back to yell at a passing Illya. "Do you hear that, Illya? Napoleon took the couch."

"I heard," the blonde man retorts, and Gaby gives off a satisfied _hmph._

"Maybe I should ask Waverly to switch us next mission. You can share with Irene, and I can share with Napoleon. Perhaps I'll get real sleep."

Illya, who is passing in the opposite direction from which he came, stops, looks seriously into Gaby's eyes, and answers, "You will do no such thing."

Gaby shrugs. "Maybe I will." Then she mutters something that sounds like: "for god's sake, I got better sleep back when I lived in East Berlin."

Irene watches the exchange in fascination. They act like Susan and her husband, right after they just got married.

Do they love each other or do they hate each other? Or are they on their way to one or the other? Susan became bitter on the road to hating Jim, but Gaby and Illya have only just met, right?

How long does it take to fall in love? How long does it take for it to fall apart?

She's asking herself questions to which she has no answers. No experience. The only kind of love she's known is the love for her parents. And even then—one died before Irene could really understand why she loved her, and the other one hurt her so awfully that she's not sure if she should love him or hate him.

Both, she thinks.

But this is not like Irene and Father. Irene loved Father because she owed him, because he owned her. Illya and Gaby fight, but there's a genuineness about their actions that make her think that perhaps they might actually care for one another.

Or maybe they love each other, but it doesn't matter because arguments are tearing them apart.

What came first? Love or hate? And where are they now?

Oy.

Irene's so busy trying to understand something abstract that she doesn't recognize the phone ringing until Illya picks it up. "It's Cowboy," he says to Gaby. "You two are supposed to go to lobby and ask about buying dresses."

Gaby turns to Irene, not quite smirking, but something like it. She picks up her hat off of the table. "I guess we'll go, then."

Nodding, Irene smiles back. "I guess so."

 **a/n:** I'm SORRY there's so much setup god I'm terrible sorry

 **Review Replies:**

janedoee7: thank you so much for all your feedback omg. I was really worried that the writing style would come off as too modern/unauthentic, but I'm really glad you think it's okay! and ALSO illya's pouting may or may not have to do with the fact that gallya still hasn't gotten their freaking kiss yet, oh my god. Napoleon's totally going to be wrapped around Irene's finger and it's going to be both beautiful and angsty :)

J. Yasmyn: omg I'm terrible at pacing you're going to have to tell me if I'm going insane. I either spend like 80% of the story on exposition or it's like _Chapter one: the wedding, action scene, and resolution_. I'm glad you think that Irene's relationships with the trio are turning out ok-I wasn't sure how they'd be received since Illya is the fandom baby and Irene's not his biggest fan.

Guest: thank you!

Giota: Your review is so kind! I'm glad to know you're enjoying it

lanibapt: jesus christ gallya is going to be my cause of death. they _still_ haven't kissed and I both hate myself/am amused by myself for it. but don't worry. more gallya. always gallya.

minstoai: your reviews have literally made my day. I'm glad you like the chapters and I'm also really happy that you like Irene! I honestly did not plan for her perspective to be this bizarre it just sort of happened.

Guest: idk what that means but thank you!

Avari20: I originally didn't want to insert an OC because the movie was already pretty damn flawless, you know? but then my brain defied me and sprouted this little plot bunny, and now I've got a whole thing planned out. Thank you so much for the reviews!

Ema Marsel: I'm so happy you're excited!

Jabberwocking: I'm naming you Irene's godparent okay

Ruthyalva96: You should definitely see the movie. So well done. Much better than this fic lol.

 **a/n: the sequel:** thank you so much for all the support guys you're all really amazing. once again, if you wanna see extra stuff for the story my tumblr is the-woman-from-uncle and the story tag is /tagged/fic: wednesday's child


	5. the planning stage

**Chapter 4**

 _"It's the devil that's trying to hold me down."_ -Halsey

Irene decides, midway through dress shopping, that she rather likes dress up.

She feels like a queen in the long, inconvenient gowns. It doesn't matter that they're not a possibility for the mission. Irene thinks she could take over the world in this dress.

It's black—all black, like a raven, with a fitted bodice and a wide neckline. The drop waist leads to a floor length skirt that's an absolute dream, puffy and satin, layers and layers of fabric. Irene likes how powerful she looks. Like she should be feared.

Sometimes it's exhausting to have to pretend not to be dangerous. Irene much prefers intimidation, rather than looking small and meek so that men aren't intimidated.

 _It's a man's world_ , she thinks unfortunately. But then, it occurs to her the number of times men have failed at hurting her—thirteen—versus the number of times she's failed at hurting men—one. Maybe _the world_ is a man's world, but _Irene_ is not a man's anything. Except maybe killer.

It's odd how comfortable she is calling herself that. Shouldn't she despise herself for everything she's done?

In her head, Irene shrugs. She probably should, but she doesn't.

Twirling around in the dress, she finds herself face-to-face with Gaby, who is wearing an emerald dress that stops only when it reaches the floor. The fabric seems to stretch on for miles and miles, which is impossible, considering how short Gaby is.

"What do you think?" Gaby asks, placing her hands on her hips, eyes narrowing, daring Irene to judge her. Irene doesn't. She couldn't, even if she wanted to. The dress looks nice on Gaby.

"It looks perfect," she remarks. Gaby stares at her for a bit longer, before smiling, a bit more relaxed.

(She still seems suspicious, though.)

"Your dress seems a little much, though," Gaby says. Irene tenses at the insult at first, before realizing that, obviously the dress is too much. She hadn't actually planned on buying it. Just trying it on. She tells that to Gaby.

A saleswoman heads over, dresses folded over her arms. "Try these on, miss," she offers, holding them out to Irene. The brunette smiles politely, lips closed so as to hide her fangs and eyes drilling pleasant holes into the woman's skull.

"Thank you," she says, reaching forward and taking them from the woman's hand. She shuffles back into the dressing room, removing the gown and putting on the first dress, a gold number that looks incredibly odd. Almost as quickly as it was on, it's off, and hung neatly back onto its hanger.

The second dress is nice. A dark red with silver embellishments around the seams. It's in the mission's budget and fits well enough, so she doesn't bother with the others.

Stepping out of the dressing room, she's surprised to see Gaby and Illya speaking with each other in hushed voices. She tilted her head at them, straining her ear to listen to what they were saying. "…don't trust her," the tall Russian mumbles to Gaby, who whispers something back at him, too quiet for Irene to hear.

Irene clears her throat, "This is better, right?" she asks.

Gaby turns around, not giving any sign as to whether or not she's startled by Irene's presence.

"It looks expensive," Gaby remarks. She steps away from Illya to reach over for the price tag. The Russian man tenses, standing straight up. Strange. It always seems like he's the one guarding Gaby. Maybe Irene's had it backwards—maybe Gaby guards him. Tiny woman keeps large man safe from harm. Huh. "Not bad." Gaby observes the little tag hanging from the side of Irene's dress.

The saleswoman comes back over, smiles pleasantly. Nods. "Very nice, Miss. Are you going to buy it?"

Gaby smiles. "We'll take this one and the green one."

Irene goes back to the dressing room and changes out of her dress. In the mirror, she stares at her body. The area around her ribs is marked with scars. Everywhere. Long, jagged, lines stretching across her torso.

These are one of the reasons that she never slept with Drew. Well, another is that she's terrified of sex. And another is that she didn't particularly care for him. But the scars would've been difficult to explain. Irene traces one up, from her belly-button up her ribs, up her breast, over her heart, stopping just short of her collarbone.

Father gave her that scar. A long, ugly mark to mar her smooth skin.

Irene hates him. So much.

Irene loves him. So much.

 _Enough of this_ , she chastises herself, picking up her dress from earlier and slipping it on over her body. A disguise.

The only time she's ever herself, really, is when she's naked.

What a sad truth that is.

* * *

The gala is tonight, and so Irene, Solo, Teller, and Kuryakin all sit in Kuryakin's hotel room, strategizing. So far, they know that Napoleon and Illya are due to pursue Maya's fiancé, and Gaby is supposed to stand guard. It's Irene's job to escort her out.

They're still working out the timetables, though.

Irene remains quiet. She's not very experienced with setting up missions, so instead she watches as Napoleon bickers with Illya and Gaby rubs her eyes.

Illya seems to argue with everyone, the only exception being Gaby. Napoleon purses his lips, hands in his pockets, before looking down. His face looks nonchalant, and only mildly annoyed. Compared to Illya—whose skin is red from annoyance—this is very casual and easygoing.

He looks much more handsome than Illya too. Illya's angry, and looks a lot like a bird. An eagle, maybe.

So many eagles. So much time in the US has led to endless pictures of eagles. Eagles as a symbol of war. As a symbol of peace. Everything in America is symbolized by an eagle.

What makes eagles so special, anyways?

Irene is seeing Napoleon, Illya, and Gaby discuss, but she can't quite hear them. It's as if being so visually observational has distracted from her ability to process sound. Strange.

Illya and Napoleon eventually sort out their argument, creating peace for a moment until they decide there's something else they need to disagree upon.

Like children. It's fascinating.

They've finally worked out a timetable, and Irene's got it memorized. So they send her and Napoleon back to their room to get ready.

It doesn't take long to put on her dress or her makeup. It's her hair that's difficult.

Irene never cared much for her appearance. Despite the way she's expected to live and sleep with perfect hair and makeup and a flawless face and a skinny waist and large breasts, she's still human, and she didn't have the time. Whether it was getting up at the crack of dawn to feed her helpless, ungrateful husband, or heading to training, she never had time for hair or makeup.

Makeup is at least easy for her to figure out. She's watched women fix theirs, and from watching them through a church bathroom's mirrors, Irene's developed an ability to put powder on her face to cover up flaws.

Hair is less simple. If she curls it, it becomes messy, and if she brushes it, it becomes flat. Irene's hair is already wavy, and to make it look nice, it has to be straightened and then curled again.

Honestly, most of the reason she doesn't do that is because she's lazy.

Irene takes red lipstick out of her case and twists the top part. She swipes some across her bottom lip and then smears it around.

She puts on mascara and powder to cover up the bumps on her forehead. It's not perfect, but it passes enough as long as she isn't speculated too closely.

After her face is finished, Irene steps back to look at her hair. She frowns as she pokes uselessly at a loose curl.

"Maybe…" she thinks out loud, grabbing her hair and lifting it up. "Maybe it I…"

Twisting her arm around, she attempts to fasten it into a bun, which doesn't look to awful on her. Irene picks out pins and clips, placing them here or there to help the style stick in place. She eyes her reflection. "Nice," she murmurs.

When she steps out of the bathroom, she actually barrels into Napoleon, stumbling over her bare feet and landing on her back on the floor. Solo looks absolutely dumbfounded about what happened, but he offers her a hand nonetheless.

She admires how nice he looks in his suit. It doesn't register that maybe she shouldn't stare for this long, but it's not as if it hurts.

Irene finally steps away, turning harshly and heading over to her suitcase. She lifts a pair of pumps out of the bag, stepping into them and giving herself a once-over in the mirror. As unladylike as it sounds, as immodest as it is, Irene likes the way she looks. The dress hangs over her, draping soft fabric over broken skin in a way that somehow comes off as flattering.

"Ready to go?" Napoleon asks from behind her. Irene whirls around, watching him across the room as he struggles to put on his watch. He looks up at her and raises a cocky eyebrow, smirking.

"Why are you doing that?" Irene asks.

"Doing what?"

"Making that face."

Solo looks at her, amused. It doesn't slip past Irene's attention that he's still making the face. "Stop," she says.

"Why? Is it distracting?"

"No," Irene protests, even though it is distracting. But only a tiny bit.

"Then why?"

"I don't know. Just…stop." Solo grins at her, and Irene rolls her eyes. "Let's just go," she says. Irene yanks up her bag, where she's stashed a knife between the layers of fabric, and throws open the hotel room door.

 **a/n:** this is such a short chapter I'm so sorry omg. I've been so busy with school and stuff that I just haven't had time to write. Anything. At all. But I'm trying to update more!

 **review replies:**

janedoee7: duuude gaby and irene are the killer besties and they both look like cinnamon rolls it's amazing. Illya's jealous, and also gallya has yet to kiss because I'm trash

darklou: thank you! I'm glad you think so.

: I'm so glad you think so omg I get so worried about writing canon characters OOC. I totally think that Illya would fight with Gaby a lot just because they're so similar in experience but different in the way that they handle things. also pls never apologize for long comments I read this like 30 times and it made me really happy *heart*

minstorai: thank you so much! yeah Irene's sort of brutally honest, she's really working on developing this sort of thing. Her childhood was so messed up, and then when she moved to America, she was letting herself be a doormat to appease everyone and fit in. I think she's learning how to function and interact from observation. also I'm glad you like my tumblr things! I really want to write a mission where Irene is paired with Illya just because. I mean. Can you imagine how poorly that would go.

January Lily: CASSANDRA YOU'RE AN ACTUAL ANGEL ILY. All of your comments are so great and encouraging. Thank you so much for taking the time to leave feedback on everything. Irene's struggling, but I think eventually she'll find her rhythm.


	6. requiem

**Word Count:** 1,902

 **Warnings:** some minor violence and a little misogyny and some almost vague sexy stuff

 **Chapter 5-** _requiem_

" _There's a girl I remember who was everyone's dream."_ –Foxes

Irene is an accessory on Napoleon's arm, and she despises it. She nods, and pretends to be surprised and enthralled by business speak, but inside, she's sobbing from boredom.

Catching Gaby's eye across the room, she makes a face. The German woman smiles briefly, before pointing at something with her eyes. Irene follows her gaze past marble columns adorned with gold and discovers that she's now directly at an impossibly beautiful girl. Must be Maya.

Irene smiles politely at whatever boring imbecile Napoleon's talking to, and she leans up towards her faux-husband's ear. "She's there," she whispers, stretching out lipstick-sheathed lips and clacking her teeth together. Rolling back off of her tiptoes, Irene looks at the other man in the conversation. She smiles politely. "Excuse me," she mutters, before stepping around him and heading to ask a waiter for directions to the bathroom.

After locking herself in the stall, Irene checks to make sure her guns are loaded and her knife is in place. There's a dagger at her hip, needles in her hair. She's positively beautiful she's positively lethal.

She wants to do this mission right.

After Irene's sure that everything is in place, she flushes the toilet for good measure and steps out of the stall, fixing her makeup in the mirror. Long lines above her lashes, shadows, stains, tints. She barely looks like herself anymore.

She looks like someone much more dangerous.

Which, conceptually, is ridiculous. The number of people she's killed makes it difficult to be _more_ dangerous, unless you're a lifelong assassin and you've just celebrated your eightieth birthday. In her head, Irene scoffs.

After washing her hands, Irene straightens her posture and heads out of the bathroom. The dull murmur of gossip shooting back and forth from one person to another is familiar, and the way the orchestra plays from the side is comforting.

Irene likes her job.

She scans the crowd for Gaby, to make sure that she's in place. Illya and Napoleon are out of sight, somewhere behind the curtain getting ready for the show. This is not a subtle take-down.

Resting a hand on her hip, Irene checks to see where Maya is, and then turns to Gaby. She nods.

The woman smiles, and says something through gritted teeth into her microphone.

And then, the massive cake in the corner of the room falls over. Irene rushes over towards Maya, not stopping even when the power flickers out for a moment. People scream. She has to move faster, before security finds the girl.

She reaches her after the lights have flickered on and off four times exactly. Irene wraps her fingers around the girl's arm.

"Who are you?" the girl demands, staring at her rudely.

"I'm Agent Acosta. I'm with U.N.C.L.E., and I'm supposed to get you out of here."

"My father would've told me if I were leaving," she scoffs.

Gunshots go off. Her visage switches from snide to panicky.

"We have to go," Irene states rather blatantly, grabbing the girl's arm.

"Wait—I have to—"

"We have to go now!" Irene shouts as a tablecloth in the corner is set on fire. It seems like Illya and Napoleon are doing their jobs fairly well.

"I have to tell my father!" the girl shrieks in a frenzy, and Irene closes her eyes to calm herself down before she actually slaps the girl. Patience is a virtue, but Irene is not virtuous.

"Do you want to die? Because if not, we have to get the hell out of here. Now. Your father will be okay."

Lie.

Lie lie lie lie lie.

Doesn't matter. She just needs to get Maya out.

"Um—" Maya starts, and then screams when one of the giant curtains is lit aflame and topples to the floor. Suddenly, the girl stops fighting, just lets Irene hold her hand and pull her out of the way, through the chaos. Gripping one of her guns, Irene prepares to shoot anyone that gets in her way.

Gaby is already in the car when they get out. She's got the engine warmed up, for when Irene and Maya stumble into the backseat.

"What about my father?" Maya shrieks, spinning around in her seat and looking out the back window. She pounds on it. "Stop the car! We have to get him."

"Control her!" Gaby shouts from up front as she weaves skillfully through traffic.

Irene grabs Maya forcefully, pulling her around. "Sit down and stay still."

"Are you kidnapping me?" Maya demands through shining eyes. "I…they'll come look for me. If you're trying to kidnap me, just know that my father and my fiancé will come for me."

"We're not kidnapping you," Irene defends, lurching to the left as Gaby makes a sharp turn and centripetal force yanks her around. "We're saving you."

Maya turns to Irene. Stares her dead in the eyes for a few moments.

And then, she lets out a shriek.

Irene looks at her, horrified, for a moment before reaching out a hand and slapping her across the face.

"There are no female guards!" Maya shrieks. "You're _kidnapping_ me!"

Just as she says that, Gaby pulls the car over to the sidewalk, where Napoleon and Illya climb in. The brunette in front of the wheel starts to drive again.

Napoleon sits in the backseat, next to Irene. Maya's sobbing, and he glances over at the girl, confused. Somehow, he doesn't look disheveled in the slightest—his hair is still gelled back and his suit unruffled. He tugs at the lapels of his jacket to fix the angle, but that's it. He's back in place.

The four spies are silent as they make their getaway. The only sound is Maya's screaming and crying.

Irene eventually switches seats with her, in case she decides to jump out the car door or something.

They drive for hours.

And then they reach the safehouse.

* * *

Irene can remember her romance, if it can even be called that, with Drew quite well.

In 1953, she was at a bar pickpocketing men and saving the bills in their wallets for a plane ticket somewhere else.

"Hey there," someone blubbers from behind her. Irene slowly moves her fingers away from an unattended jacket strewn over the back of a chair. She turns around with wide eyes, mouth open and a thousand excuses on the tip of her tongue. A handsome man, tall and broad shouldered, stands there smiling at her. "I'm Drew," he introduces before she can say a word.

Irene remembers smiling back, hopefully flirtatiously to erase the memory of her trying to steal a wallet. "Irene," she answered, leaning back and exposing the V of her chest.

"What's a pretty thing like you doing here?"

In her head, Irene is screaming. The alarms are sounding. _ThingThingThingThingThing_ she needs to _y._ She needs to get away from him _now_ he called her a _thing_ she is a goddamn _person_ she needs to _run._

She doesn't. She just flips her hair over her shoulder, inhaling his whiskey scent. She leans up close to his ear, and whispers, "That's a secret."

(If she's flirty enough maybe he'll take her to a hotel room, where she can tempt him until he takes off his jacket, and she can pull his wallet out and run.)

He laughs a little in her ear. "Any way I can convince you to tell me?"

Irene leans back, then lifts up an eyebrow. "Maybe."

She knows how to do this because this is how she would lure men into her black widow's web. Flirting. Smile. _Make them want more._

"And how's that?" he asks her.

She shrugs. "You could buy me a drink."

He looks entranced, under her spell, and so she laughs over her shoulder and orders two martinis. In an eager haze, he finds a seat at the bar, and she settles down next to him. "Where are you from, Irene?"

Shaking her head, she answers, "Not yet. I'll ask you questions first." Assess if it's worth trying to grab his money. Does he have enough? "How old are you?"

"Twenty five," he answers dutifully. "You?"

 _Nineteen._ "Twenty two." She raises a brow at him. "What do you do?"

"My dad owns a firm, Rogers and Co. I'm a lawyer."

The bartender places two martinis in front of them. Irene drums her nails against the table. "Are you a Mister Rogers, then?"

He laughs. "I suppose so."

She smiles, traces a deliberate path across her teeth with her tongue. Tantalizing. Tempting. She can see in the way his eyes darken that he's completely engrossed in her words.

She's got him.

"Do you have a wife?" she asks him.

Drew frowns. "No. My dad's pressuring me to find one though."

Opening.

"I don't know if I can marry you," she starts, taking a drawn out sip from her glass, "but maybe you can get us a hotel room, and we can see from there."

He hesitates. _Ohnoohnoohno._ But then, he grins back at her. Wolfish grin. Scary grin. _Grandmawhatbigteethyouhave_ grin. And he says, "Let's go."

They abandon half-filled drinks and walk down the sidewalk until they find a motel. He rents a room, they stumble in, Irene reaches into his coat, sloppy mouths. She pulls a wallet out of his pocket and stumbles into him to distract while she shoves it into her pocket.

He grabs her wrist though, and mumbles against her lips, "I know what you're doing."

Irene pulls away, ready to run, but he holds her in place.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," he tells her, and Irene has already balled her hands into fists, ready to punch him and make a hasty escape. "I want to make a proposal," he starts, but Irene is already swinging her hand forward, upwards to break his nose.

Drew stumbles back.

"Whoa, whoa, hold on. I was gonna say, that if you marry me—"

"No."

"Wait, if you marry me, I'll support you financially. A hundred percent. Whatever you want. I need a wife, and judging by the fact that you're trying to steal my wallet, you need money. It's mutually beneficial."

Irene eyes him suspiciously. "How can I trust you? That you won't kidnap me?"

"How can I trust you?" he counters. "How can I trust that you won't take my money and run?"

Balling her fists up, Irene spits out, "I'm not that kind of girl."

"And I'm not that kind of guy," he returns easily. The stare at each other. "Look, you won't have to work another day of your life. We can find a nice house and you can do whatever you want for the rest of your life."

Irene _can't believe_ she's considering it. She _can't believe_ herself when she reaches out a hand to shake his. "Fine."

That's all there is. Business, and nothing else.

 **a/n:** I feel like the first part of this chapter was a mess but the rest was okay. I'm sorry about the long wait :/

Thank you so much for all of the reviews! Please keep em coming


	7. scream

**major triggers for this chapter:** implied torture, implied rape, implied incest, blood.

Chapter 6- _scream_

 _"_ _藏在肺裡的尖叫_ _藏在骨頭和肌肉裡_ _的_ _"_ _-_ Grimes

Irene stumbles out into the light. It's blinding, and it's warm, and it's the best thing she's felt in days. Irene trips over her feet and falls to the pavement, sticking out her available hand and breaking her fall.

There's a helicopter in the distance. She can make it towards the helicopter. The helicopter is U.N.C.L.E. Napoleon is on the helicopter. Illya and Gaby are on the helicopter. She needs to make it there.

Irene pinches her eyelids shut. _Too bright too bright too bright._ Just move forward. Once foot before the other. _We've been betrayed. We've been betrayed. Warn them warn them warn them._

She begins to drag herself forward, opening her eyes. _Will they help me up_? Are her teammates her friends are they going to protect her? Will they let her decompose into ruins?

It _hurts._

Stings and shots and _betrayal_ and knives and bullets and every muscle in her body shrieks for her to stop but she _can't_ she needs to move _forward_ and _forward_ and she needs to keep up keep up keep _going_ or she will _die._ Her breaths become shaky, and her hand feels sticky where it rests against her body. Is that sweat? Blood? She can't remember. All that flashes through her brain is the memory of a silver blade dragged across her forearm and nails in her back and there's a soreness between her legs and she feels empty and used, like her father used to use her, and she feels disgusting and maybe it wouldn't be so bad if she died right now. She should just float away, into the light, towards the light, and maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe death is not sad. Maybe it's sane.

The idea is so appealing that her eyes begin to slip shut. She's tired. And then, she remembers. _Betrayal._ She must tell them so that they are not hurt like she has been hurt. Irene does not want them to get poked and prodded and stabbed and she does not want Gaby to be tied up like she was and abused like she was and she does not want to see bullets in the torsos of her teammates or her partners and she just wants to protect them.

So Irene must keep going.

There's a faint _click click click_ in the distance, and maybe it's a bomb. Maybe it'll kill her and maybe it'll kill all the others. Maybe they'll all be obliterated and turned to dust, and Irene can fade away and nobody will remember. If all the others die then Irene is okay with dying too. She just wants to keep them safe. The spies.

The click click comes closer and Irene looks up at the sky, wonders if her atheism has been wrong all along. If the noise is a bomb and she dies, where will she go? Her body will burn and turn to ashes and nobody will care. She is a faceless girl among the system. But what of her soul? Will she be reborn? Will she meet the God that was preached to her every Sunday in suburban hell?

Maybe Mary and Susan and Sally and Heather and Rachel and Linda were all correct, and she was _wrong_ because she is _stupid_ and soon, she will be dead.

Click click click click click _explode explode_ come on. _EXPLODE_ goddammit. _Ruin me._ "I want to die," she whispers. "Kill me."

The click click comes close, and then someone is heaving her up. Maybe they'll take her back and that's how she will die. That is an unsatisfactory death. She will not _die_ and the hands of men.

When her pupils filter the light, though, it is not a burly man or a twisted woman. It is Illya, and _thank god_ he doesn't hate her enough to leave her behind.

There is a man that runs up behind him. Waverly? No. Napoleon. "What's she saying?" someone asks, and Irene moves her lips back and forth, mouthing a word since her vocal chords won't work. "Betrayal. Betrayal. She lied to us. She lied to us."

Illya sets Irene down and she sways for a moment, finding her footing. Her occupied hand presses harder against her stomach.

"She's hurt. She's too pale. Where's the wound?"

Someone is talking and someone is mouthing words and Irene smiles, mouths a sad, "I'm sorry," as her eyes well up, and then she drops her hand from her torso, the overall pattern of scarlet slipping down her stomach and all over her hand, between her fingers as it coagulates and sticks, and Irene entered the world covered in blood and now, this is how she will leave it. Her heart feels limp and she didn't reach the helicopter, but that's okay. "Betrayal," she mumbles against Illya's shoulder, teeth bloodied.

And she collapses.

Let's rewind.

* * *

The news that evening calls for searches for Maya, but they've already dropped her off at the docks, where a CIA agent is taking her to the leisure unit for a few weeks until things blow over. Now that they've extracted Maya, they have to focus on her fiance's involvement with terrorists.

Irene watches from the coastline as a boat carrying the teenager floats away. It's big, full of agents. She's safe, and maybe it'll help Irene sleep better at night.

Turning around, she finds herself face-to-face with Napoleon, who is wiping his hands with a handkerchief. Irene stumbles back in surprise. When did he get that close?

She steps away from him, and heads towards Waverly. "What next?"

The man purses his lips in thought for a few moments, before answering, "You will infiltrate the base. Hasan has many mistresses. You will be the next."

Irene bites her lip. She can begrudgingly allow herself to _pretend_ she is sleeping with a married man behind the curtain, but she does not actually want to _sleep with a man._ She can't. Sex is not possible for Irene. If they make her do it she will _scream_ for help and she will suffocate as hands wrap around her throat and the atmosphere is sucked free of oxygen.

But if she says no, what will they do to her? Send her back to suburban hell? She doesn't want to go back to that. She can't.

So does she even have a choice?

 **a/n:** I know this chapter was really short but I felt like this was a good place to cut it off. Thank you all for your continued support, it means _so much_ to me even though I've been taking a long ass time to update. I'm not trying to be petty, but I've noticed a slight decline in reviews and if you guys would share your thoughts on the chapter, if would mean the world to me.

Also on another note, um I broke 120 followers? Thank you so much omg.

As always, feel free to hit me up on tumblr. My main blog is jo-harvelles and my writing blog is mars-carter.


	8. ichor

**warnings:** torture, blood, violence, suicidal thoughts, implied mention of rape, knives.

chapter 7- _ichor_

" _If there's a light at the end, it's just the sun in your eyes."_ -Halsey

It's a wonder how they didn't catch her sooner. Irene chalks it up to her practice lying, but it could have been anything—careless guards, ignorant families. All she knows is that they realize she isn't genuine when one of the men in the house—someone's brother or brother in law or friend's brother—decides he will take Irene back to his room.

She bites her tongue until it bleeds, following him up the stairs. Her eyes are glassy and emotionless. Void. She feels ready to throw herself in front of a train.

Time seems to move quickly, until he's touching her with rough, angry fingers, and she can't breathe, she's suffocating, and he stares at her curiously and then laughs, mumbles, shouts for a guard, and Irene can't seem to force any air into her lungs while they drag her away, and she's pushed down the stairs. " _She's a spy. I knew she was right when she said she saw her at the party."_

Irene squeezes her eyes shut, and loses control of her body. It goes limp, and someone kicks the back of her knee so hard that blue blobs start spreading out into her vision.

 _You've survived much more than this_ , she reminds herself, and straightens, remembering her CIA training and whipping a hand up to hit the man on the left in the nose. He stumbles back, and Irene twists herself in circles until the other man breaks away. She picks up her heel and slams it down on the first man's ankle. He howls in pain. Turning around, she kicks the other man in the stomach, then punches him across the nose. She slings a leg over his shoulder as he bowls over, and then she forces herself forward until she can drag him down with her. There are reinforcements coming soon, so Irene kicks off her shoes and flees the house. As her bare feet pound the cement outside the door, she can hear gunshots in the distance.

Once she reaches the gates, Irene breathes a sigh of relief, prepared to keep sprinting. Before she can continue running, someone jumps up from behind her and wraps an arm around her neck. Now she _really_ can't breathe. Gasps spill from her mouth, sharp and pointy against her tongue and her tonsils. Irene waves her arms around, trying to hit something, _anything_ so she can get away. Her lungs _burn_ with desire for oxygen, and Irene tries desperately to sate them, but to no avail.

Her vision goes black a few seconds later.

* * *

When Irene wakes up, there's a syringe in her arm and she can't see through her left eye. Also, she's just had a bucket of ice poured onto her head, so she gasps against the cold. "You're from U.N.C.L.E., huh? Never heard of that."

The man before her is older than she is, by at least twenty years. His hair is grey, he's missing one of his teeth, and he's got a tattoo that runs across the left side of his jaw. He's very short.

Irene is still wearing the golden dress she showed up in. Her curls have fallen out, and she can feel her lipstick smeared across her cheek. She must look insane.

Isn't she, though? Does it matter?

She clenches her jaw, determined not to confirm or deny his claim.

"You did some pretty impressive damage to the guards, you know. Do they teach that at U.N.C.L.E.?"

Silence.

"You know, when Maya told me your name was Irene Acosta, I did some reading up on you." The way he says her name is wrong. Irene a-cohs-tuh. _Wrong_ , she screams in her head. _Wrong wrong wrong._ At least he doesn't know her. She is just a name with a history. And blood stuck between the cracks of her palms. "You've got quite an impressive resume. There's not much about where you learned to kill like you did with that guard, but I have to say, you've led an exciting life." Irene flinches when he leans forward to brush her hair out of her face. _Kill_ , she can remember him saying. She killed a guard.

Good.

"Born in Cuba, your mother died when you were six. Your father went insane when you turned ten. He confessed to six unsolved murders, and was killed by mobs when you were seventeen." He nods at her, an unsettling smile making its way across his already disturbing visage. "You dropped off the grid after that, but you've clearly resurfaced. Tell me, Irene—where did you go?"

As he asks the question, he leans forward in his chair, running a hand up her ankle, and then higher, higher, _high_ —

"Where did you go, Irene?" he murmurs, staring at her chest before blinking and smiling at her eyes.

She pinches in her cheeks for a moment, before spitting on his face. "Fuck you," she snaps, and he tightens his grip on her knee. "I'm going to kill you," she swears.

"Where did you go?" he asks, this time sharp and staccato. "You disappeared for ten years, and now, here you are. _Where were you?_ "

Her blood boils. She _hates_ this man so much. His words are like spears, and they hit her in the stomach by surprise every damn time. "I hate you," she whispers.

"Hmm? Say it louder, sweetheart."

The pet name is enough for her to grit her teeth so hard that something in her jaw cracks. _I'm going to kill you_ , she promises him silently. _I'm going to end your life._

Irene clenches her stomach and tugs on her bindings. There's rope around her wrists and her neck and her ankles, and she feels like a dog. He's treating her like a dog—the pet names, the neck restraint, the stroking her legs. Her flesh burns with hatred wherever he touches, and if only she could lean forward just the slightest bit, and wrap her fingers around his neck, and squeeze until the light left his eyes.

"What did you say, Irene?"

Her response is limited to a sharp glare.

"Then I guess we'll just have to try to more tests on you," he tells her, shrugging. He sounds cartoonish and campy, but Irene's heart pounds with fear. She's scared of him, of his power. Why doesn't U.N.C.L.E. give their agents cyanide?

When the man disappears for a moment, Irene tries to shimmy around in her restraints. She gropes around with her fingers. The ones around her wrists are secured like belts. If she tried for long enough they can be undone. Desperately, Irene moves her head back and forth, trying to see if she can feel a metal buckle like on her hands. Nothing. She can't see her ankles.

The man whisks back in, a mess of wires in his hand. "Beautiful," he marvels at Irene, and she continues to scowl at him. "Oh, sweetie, that face won't get you anywhere." He pulls a wire out of the box and wraps it around her wrist. "Let's play a game. I'll ask you a question. You answer. If you get it wrong, I'll push this button—" he pauses to demonstrate, stroking the button before pressing it gently, causing pain to radiate through Irene, from her wrist to her ribs to her head to her gut, "—but if you get it right, I'll leave you alone."

They play for hours. Irene gets every single question wrong, because she glues her lips together and leaves them like that for the duration of the game. By the time things are over, she feels the overwhelming need to vomit. But if she does, she'll get the acids all over herself, and god knows her torturer isn't going to help with anything. Irene itches to escape, and move her legs, and get back to anyone because, Jesus, even spending the rest of her life next to Illya sounds better than this.

"You're not very smart, are you?" the man chastises, before clicking his teeth together. "No, you aren't." He abandons her again for a few moments. Then, he returns with another syringe. "We have to keep you alive, don't we?"

 _No. Kill me_ , Irene prays. To whoever is listening. _Take my life._

She is still alive three days later, after three days of syringes in her stomach and cruel _true or false_ games, and watching her own blood spill from open wounds.

"My name is Emin. I want to help you," he says. "My partner is gone for the rest of the night. I think we can make progress without the bindings, right?"

Irene nods, still suspicious.

"You have to promise you'll behave. You will, right Irene? You're a good girl."

Irene is most certainly _not_ a good girl. She's killed people and lied to people and done monstrous things in her short life, but she will continue lying and being horrible if it means she can get out.

"Good."

He reaches over, untying her wrist straps, followed by the one around her neck, followed by her ankles. As soon as both her legs are free, Irene kicks him in the crotch and jumps up. Her legs are shaky and the muscles burn from disuse, but she ignores the stinging and flees as fast as possible. Emin screams for guards, following behind her. Irene can hear him dig a knife out of his utility belt and flick the blade out. She stops, turns, and raises her fists, ready to fight him. Or kill him.

She grabs his fist as he raises the knife to stab her in the neck, and she pulls it backwards, twists it. She punches him in the throat with all the strength she can muster and yanks the weapon out of his grip. Emin grunts, and she stabs him in the side for good measure.

Continuing down the hall, Irene does her best to avoid the steps of the guards around certain corners. She's lost in a maze of hallways and staircases, and Irene figures the best way out is up. It smells like she's underground, but if she ends up on the roof, at least she can throw herself off.

"Stop!" someone yells, boots thundering down the hall, and Irene screams as loud as she can, the sound echoing out, bouncing through the hallways like ink in water. She takes off again, just as the same person yells, "bitch!" at her.

With all the puddles she steps in on her way out, Irene probably inherited some kind of skin disease. She finds a stairwell, and begins trudging up the levels, looking up every once and a while to see how many floors she has to go. The trip up is surprisingly uneventful. No guards. No old men with tattoos and wires. No traitorous girls. Irene holds the handrail with all her might, pulling herself up to the top and finding the door. She kicks it open and runs out.

Emin is there, waiting for her. Irene slows to a stop. He's pulled the knife out of his side, and he looks murderous. "You haven't been good, Irene," he chastises.

"Damn right," she mumbles, before lunging at him. The blade grazes her ribs, and she clenches her jaw to stifle a scream. Irene hooks a leg around his slender waist, following his arm along for the knife. He tosses her onto the ground, but she maintains a sturdy grip on the weapon. They wrestle it away from one another, and in a flurry of pain, she ends up pressed against a wall. She scratches his face with her nails, and he reacts by forcing the knife into her stomach, twisting it upward. Irene's hand drops from his face. He steps back, allowing her to fall pitifully to the ground.

"I'm disappointed in you, Irene," he chastises, before turning and walking away. Irene narrows her eyes, pulling the knife from her torso. He's about to turn a corner when she raises the handle. Mustering up her strength, Irene hurls it at his back as hard as she can. The handle almost hits him, but the blade wins out in the end. He makes a choking noise. Irene doesn't stick around.

Instead, she pulls herself up, and stumbles towards the door. She pushes it open with a grunt. The sunshine embraces her.

 **a/n:** Thank you all so so much for your support and reviews last chapter. I appreciate them all so much. I hope you can keep it up for this chapter! I have a lot of stuff planned for the next arc/mission, so I'm really looking forward to moving on and writing more.


	9. red queen, white queen

**a/n:** hey everyone! I'm back.

Before I get to the chapter, I'm really excited to announce that I've created a blog dedicated solely to Irene, which can be found at irene-acosta dot tumblr dot com. If you want to see more of her and less of my other stuff, that would be the blog to follow!

As always, thank you so much for the reviews. I'm overwhelmed by the support that this story has gotten, and I'm absolutely blown away by the way you guys have stuck with me through the long breaks between chapters and the slow-paced fillers and all the horrible things I put my characters through.

This chapter features a lot of OCs, and very few appearances by canon characters. The next chapter kicks off a new mission (and so, a new arc) of the story, which will probably be a lot less bloody (but still maybe angsty) and will feature a lot more Irene/Napoleon.

Chapter 8- _red queen, white queen_

It takes Irene two weeks in the hospital before she's cleared for missions again, with a warning against combat engagement. Waverly briefs her on cultish disturbances in a small area of Florence, Italy likely caused by Nazi-sympathizers. He tells her that Illya and Gaby are on a separate mission in Sweden, and that the timelines for both operations should overlap evenly. She is to leave for New York in the morning for extra preparation, seeing as her undercover skills might need work, and then depart for Italy with Napoleon three days later.

When Irene asks Waverly's retreating figure whatever became of Maya, of her terrorist fiancé and evil father, and he says, "You killed the fiancé. The Emin man who tortured you? Dead. Solo and Kuryakin blew up the base, where Hasan happened to be. And Teller shot Maya after she tried to stab her." He adjusts his glasses. "Well done." And then he's gone.

Irene is on a miserable plane ride to New York the next morning, where she reads over her file on Istanbul between bouts of nausea and migraines.

When the plane finally crashes into the runway, Irene is ready to demonstrate her gratefulness by kissing the floor.

(She refrains.)

The CIA airfield composed of a large building off to the side, a bunch of runways, and a parking lot. Irene is greeted by two people—a redhead woman and a dark-haired guy.

"Acosta?" the woman greets with a polite smile. Irene nods. "I'm Julie Stone, a communications agent. This is Richard Lynch. We'll be working with you for the next two days."

"Hello," Irene greets, sticking her hand out in greeting. Julie has her red hair tied back in a headscarf, and she's donning a floral dress paired with a green cardigan. Richard is a tall, boyish looking guy in a suit jacket with his sleeves rolled up. He's not wearing a blazer, so Irene can see his suspenders. He's got his thumbs hooked into them awkwardly, and his hair is curled a little bit. Based off of how uncomfortable he looks, he's a new recruit. Likely twenty two or so.

The redhead takes her hand firmly. "It's nice to meet you. I was told to tell you that the women's program has recruited three more possible agents." Irene's face lights up, and she feels something pleasant blossom in her stomach.

"That's fantastic," she decides.

"Absolutely," Julie agrees. Smiling, she turns to Richard. "We should go, then."

"Of course," he answers, nodding, but remaining in his place. Julie points to the waiting car with her nose and his eyes go wide. "Oh! Definitely. This way."

He leads them over to the car, and Julie stays back to tell Irene a few things. "We'll be taking you to a safehouse—a real one, not like the one in Istanbul. Rick and I will help you with some undercover things, teach you some Italian and how to stop panic attacks, and then on Monday afternoon, Napoleon will pick you up and you two will head to the airport."

She calls him "Napoleon," not "Solo," so Irene guesses that they know each other prior. A gnawing creature that lives in her ribcage wants to know how.

 _Bite your tongue._

She does. Hard. The two teeth in the middle of her top row have uneven bottoms and they curve into a mass of taste buds. _Secrets should stay quiet._

The car ride is uninteresting. Traffic in New York City is horrific, which Irene takes advantage of, as it lets her look at all the impossibly tall buildings. They look like giants, climbing up the sky, higher and higher. As they inch through the streets, Judie explains the protocol for Irene's next mission—she (or Trudy Monroe) and her husband Roy are wealthy vacationers spending their spring in Florence. Actually, they were being sent to stop a likely soon-to-occur heist. A large collection of paintings was moving to an Italian museum for a limited showing, and odd amounts of funds in a competitor's account were being transferred to Louis Adimari, a man who'd been arrested multiple times for attempted robbery.

Due to U.N.C.L.E.'s lack of official status among larger agencies, like the CIA or the KGB, Waverly can't enforce early action to prevent the heist, unless he wants to be facing a jury at some point soon.

Irene stares up at the tall buildings with curious eyes. They seem to brush the horizon, aspiring for the stars but not quite reaching them. She feels small next to them, and despite the inadequacy that accompanies the experience, it's actually quite comforting. Despite the possibility that she's reading far too much into it, Irene enjoys knowing that some things are not in her control. Like the buildings.

"They're pretty impressive, huh?" says Richard from his spot in the front seat. Irene turns her gaze to his. Twisting around in his seat isn't too much of a risk, considering the hellish traffic they're stuck in.

"Yeah," Irene agrees. She smiles politely at Richard. His eyes are wide and a bit hopeful. They're genuine, somehow. Julie is genuine too, albeit a little more exhausted looking. Compared to the amount of people she's met in the past 18 or so years, the number of whom weren't liars is alarmingly low. Her husband, Gaby, Illya, Napoleon, her father, women down the block that pretended to be friends. When she looks at Richard she sees some of Tomas. She does not wish him the same fate.

It takes hours for them to finally make it to the safehouse. Julie unlocks the door and ushers Irene in, while Richard carries the three cases they've brought.

Despite the house looking perfectly symmetrical and bathed in pastel, Irene can see that a wall in the kitchen splits open to reveal a staircase, which leads to an underground shooting range. There are three bedrooms in the house. They're all upstairs, with bolted doors and bulletproof windows.

Irene takes her case from Richard, and lugs it into her room, throwing it onto the bed, which creaks in protest. She grunts as she drags it over, re-orienting it to a position that makes it easier to open. After flipping the top off, Irene yanks out a paper bag with her gun, a few magazine cartridges, and a deck of cards. She also takes the time to pick out a new pair of shoes—flats, and pants, because the tulle under her skirt makes her legs want to die a quick death.

After she's in pants and a clean shirt, Irene twists her ruined curls up into a knot atop her head and heads back downstairs. Richard and Julie are in the kitchen, pointing out things here and there. They speak in low voices. Not secretive, but because they don't need to be any louder. Irene takes a moment to observe, before stepping into the kitchen.

Julie turns around and gives Irene another welcoming grin. "Perfect. I'm going to have Richard work on making dinner, while you and I practice some Italian."

As much as Irene hates learning languages (well, the only one she's learned before was English, but I digress), she grasps the concepts without too much trouble, if she repeats them to herself. She's absolutely not fluent—not even close, but she can speak "vacation Italian," which should be enough if her persona is on vacation.

After dinner, Irene scours the bookshelves, pulling out hardcovers with decorated spines and interesting names. She flips through them, saves a few to take up to her room with her—namely, a glamourously decorated copy of _Alice Through the Looking Glass_ and a seemingly unused _Sense and Sensibility._

She heads up to her room. Bathes, and then heads over to her bed, taking the copy of _Alice_ and opening it up. There's a poem within the first few pages—about summertime and aging. Irene shuffles around, the legs of her pajama pants bunching around her knees, and continues reading. There are words that she doesn't quite understand, and a few too many parts that puzzle her, but Irene keeps reading until her eyelids feel heavy and begin to shut.

Irene dreams of home; before everything in her life was turned on its head.

* * *

To her surprise, Irene doesn't actually wake up until eight the next morning. And—even more shocking—nobody chastises her for it.

She's downstairs and dressed by 8:30, and Richard and Julie are both sitting in the dining room. He furrows his brow and stares determinedly at a file in front of him.

"Look closely," Julie instructs him. "Are there any flaws with the information?"

Richard leans back, stretches his neck, and then rests his elbows back on the table. "No…?"

"Okay…what about the specialty section? What does it say about him?"

"He's…oh." Richard stops and looks up at Irene. Julie looks up too.

"Good morning," she greets.

"Hi," Julie answers. "There's scrambled eggs on the stove, if you want."

Irene blinks at her, because that's exactly what she would say to Drew every morning of their marriage.

Well, technically, that still exists, but.

After the (surprisingly large amount of) shock has faded, Irene mumbles, "Thank you," and heads over to the stove. She finds the drawer with the forks and scoops some of the eggs onto her plate, while Julie and Richard go back to evaluating the file in front of him. Irene locates the paper and settles on the couch, reading through the headlines but not the articles, sounding out impossible words as she eats her breakfast. The food is actually quite good, even if she's not a huge fan of eggs in the first place.

Once she's finished, Irene folds up the paper and leaves it on the coffee table. She brings her plate to the sink and begins to scrub at it with soap.

"I was thinking that we should go to the shooting range first. Then we can review some of the Italian you learned yesterday, and then we'll have lunch, and this afternoon, we can work on anxiety attacks, okay?" Julie reveals.

Irene nods and answers, "Okay," because her feelings on the plan are fairly apathetic, and because she probably doesn't have a choice if she feels like fighting it.

Julie sticks to the schedule. They work with rifles and shotguns in the morning, review Italian before lunch, have sandwiches, and then afterwards, Richard and Julie explain what happens during a panic attack, and how to stop it.

It's actually somewhat embarrassing to Irene. That she nearly ruined an entire operation because she was afraid. Agents weren't supposed to be afraid. You can't save people if you're living in constant fear.

These thoughts invade her skull despite Julie's insistent "it's not your fault."

For a moment, the redhead stares at her, unfaltering, and Irene is almost positive she'll ask about why Irene had a panic attack. But she doesn't. She moves on.

A relieved breath escapes her.

 **a/n:** next up, Florence! Please leave a review, and remember that Irene's stories have their own blog now—irene-acosta dot tumblr dot com. Thank you!


	10. the florence affair

**a/n:** This chapter took me a million and one years, I apologize. My flashdrive got destroyed and all my work/outlines/etc. got deleted, so it took me a while to sort things out and then to find my muse again.

Chapter 10- _The Florence Affair_

Irene meets Napoleon in the airport with a headscarf wrapped around her hair and a cardigan draped around her shoulders. He rises from his chair near the gate and raises a hand in both indication and greeting. As per usual, he dons a suit and a tie, and just as he's about to open his mouth to speak, a security officer walks by and starts talking to one of the men nearby. His eyes flash when he makes eye contact with her, and then he leans in, giving her cheek a quick peck. It takes all Irene's strength not to flinch away from the touch, and she's both happy and sad about the brevity of it all. One second there, the next gone. She's not used to touches that don't hurt.

"Sorry," he mumbles into her ear in the midst of pulling away. He's treating her differently. Like she's fragile. Irene thinks for a moment, until she reaches a startling realization-he must have found out about what happened in Istanbul. At this recognition, Irene's cheeks begin to burn. How _humiliating._ He must think so little of her-the first mission she ever went on is a complete failure.

"Don't," she hisses at him, words dripping with unnecessary spite.

Napoleon raises an eyebrow.

"Don't treat me like I'll break."

He stares at her curiously, and for a few moments, Irene stares back with determination. He will _not_ intimidate her. He will _not_ scare her.

He's not trying to, though, he's just looking at her. Trying to get to know her. So in the end, Irene does break away. She glances down at her shoes, and then turns around to look at the airplane. People rush around, prepping it for takeoff. They look so small from where she's standing-like ants in a line, they transport things back and forth.

Napoleon walks up behind her. "I know you can take care of yourself," he mutters, then pulls a piece of paper out of his jacket. "They just called first class." As she turns around, Irene realizes that he's a lot closer than she expected. "Shall we?" he asks, taking a step back and gesturing with his arm. Maybe it's the lighting, but Irene thinks his eyes are glinting. They remind her of the look Susan would get when she had gossip nobody heard yet-they both look like they're withholding secrets, taunting Irene with things they know and she doesn't.

Looping her arm through his, Irene decides she's too tired to try and argue with him. It takes the help of some pills, but she sleeps almost through the entire flight, which is far more comfortable than the one to Istanbul. She wakes up once, after dinner has been cleared. Per her request, a stewardess brings her a glass of wine.

Irene nurses the alcohol for a bit while Napoleon sleeps. She rests her head gently on the wall of the plane, gaze sliding across her peripheral vision to make observations. Across the aisle, a fat man is smoking a cigar and wheezing at his newspaper; a woman in a ridiculous hat sits with a small boy in the seats before him. She's trying to scold her child without garnering any outside attention, and it seems to be working for the most part. Through the gap in the seats, Irene sees that the people in front of her both wear tuxedos. Likely businessmen.

The cold airplane are bites at her arms, and Irene tugs her sweater tighter around her shoulders to smother the gooseflesh. It doesn't take long for the effects of the wine and a few more pills to appear, and before she knows it, she's returned to her slumber.

Arriving in Florence is pleasant, but first-class seating and sleeping pills don't give her as much desperation to be back on earth. Still, the comforts of sitting in a car or stretching her legs make her feel much better.

Napoleon chats with the Italian agent commandeering the car, and Irene catches a phrase she understands here and there. Not much, just some words out of context and the greetings in the beginning. Instead of paying too much attention, Irene rests her forehead against the window as a child would, and observes the passing landscape. The buildings are beautiful. A pair of women in lovely dresses stroll down the street. Irene wonders where they're going- _home? Away? To dinner?_

The light turns and Irene must switch her gaze from the women to the road ahead. The agent-Martinelli? She's not sure-pulls up in front of the hotel and allows them to exit while a bellboy removes their suitcases from the trunk.

Like the hotel in Istanbul, this one sports a lavish lobby and a slew of wealthy-looking guests. The room is nicer, with two beds, fortunately. No sooner than Napoleon has opened the door is Irene collapsing onto the couch, bones heavy from the day of travelling. She props her head up on a pillow and lets her eyes drift shut for a moment or so.

"What time is it?" she asks him, craning her neck to see if there's a clock in the room.

"Four thirty," Napoleon answers, staring at his watch. "That gives us an hour and a half before the gallery viewing."

Of course-the viewing. Irene bites her lip and thinks back to her cover. _I can do this_ , she tells herself. The voice in her brain is uncharacteristically optimistic, and she's hesitant to believe it. What kind of traitor inhabits her mind?

"There should be a dress in the closet," she tells Napoleon, rolling back over onto her back and crossing her legs. The ceiling has silver trim. A fleur-de-li is painted in the center, near the chandelier.

A hanger clanks against a metal bar as Napoleon lifts something off the rack in the closet.

" _Huh,"_ he remarks.

The comment piques Irene's curiosity. "What is it?" she inquires, rolling over until her feet hit the ground. She stumbles as she stands up and ambles over to what Napoleon is looking at. When she sees the dress, her jaw drops and an " _Oh_ ," escapes her mouth.

It's not actually all that special-a blue, floor length gown. But it comes with opera gloves and the most enormous diamond necklace Irene has ever seen. Granted, she's never seen a diamond necklace in her life, but she's fairly sure this is a very large rock.

There's a note attached that Napoleon tears off and reads aloud. "There are a communications unit and a tracking device embedded into this necklace. The jewel in the center stores a cyanide pill." He purses his lips. "Cheery."

Irene furrows her brow, taking the note from him. But it's just like he said-nothing more or less. She drops it onto the end table and reaches out to feel the fabric of the dress. Stiff, but smooth, like most of the American things she's worn. "What do you wear?" Irene asks with unintentional harshness, then realizes that her question is phrased rather oddly. "I mean-are you...a tuxedo?"

Napoleon smirks at her and Irene's cheeks burn. _I'm tired from traveling,_ she reasons. _That's why I'm incapable of forming complete sentences._

When he responds affirmatively, he looks like he's holding back a smirk. As soon as he's out of the room (off to unpack, or something), Irene huffs and sits back down on the couch. She crosses her arms and pouts like a child for a few moments, trying to rationalize her frustration at his teasing countenance. _I'm exhausted_ , she insists to herself. A quiet thought flits across her consciousness, so meek she can barely hear it, but Irene _thinks_ it tells her that she seeks approval.

 _False._

Not that she's sure what it said, but if that was it... _wrong._ Not true at all.

Irene heaves herself up off the couch rather ungracefully and runs a hand through her hair, mussing the already-flat curls. Scowling, she remembers that she'll have to fix her hair again before the viewing.

Since Napoleon currently inhabits the bedroom, Irene travels in the opposite direction to the powder room. She brings with her a bag of makeup and beauty supplies and applies them accordingly.

Before arriving in America, Irene rarely wore makeup. She supposed that, had her mother still been alive, she would've been the one to teach her daughter about it. Seeing how she wasn't, Irene learned by opening the tubes and containers and powders and putting them on her face until they looked right. The lipstick and mascara were easy enough, but what was the difference between foundation and concealer? Which came first?

Eventually, she'd given up whatever proper form existed for the steps of applying the products. First the powder, until the marks and bruises and scars her hidden, and then the mascara, and then the lipstick.

Hair, however, was a whole other story.

Irene's mother was Spanish, her father Cuban. Both had textured hair almost impossible to tame. In fact, her hair was probably the least American-passing part about her. Instead of sleeping in curlers, Irene had to straighten her hair, wet it, and immediately wrap it around the cylindrical pieces of metal before it began to regain texture.

If she wants to be ready by six, Irene won't have the time to partake in that elaborate process. Instead, she straightens her locks and wraps them up in a knot at the back of her head. Dressy enough to fit in, but still simple enough to avoid grabbing the attention of any passersby.

She unhooked the dress and gloves from the hanger, pressing it to her body and observing herself in the mirror. The cut makes her waist look absurdly tiny. A halter neckline pulls and presses her ribs and chest. The long skirt gives off the impression that she is tall-much taller than she actually is.

There are shoes, too, resting on the shelf. White pumps that squeak when Irene tries them on. They don't mesh well with the floor, and as soon as she makes an attempt to walk across the carpet, she finds her ankles caving in as all her weight depends on two wobbling heels.

An hour later, she's dressed and sitting on the couch, resting her chin in her left hand and reading over protocols again. The basic mission outline includes suspected plans and maps. Some background information and schedules. Irene blows out a breath and leans back. She's bored, but they can't leave yet since Napoleon is on the phone with Gaby and they'll get there early if they leave before five-thirty, which looks suspicious.

Irene hears Napoleon emit a soft chuckle and mention something about peril. It must be an inside joke. Sure, Irene only arrived to the party a few days late, but she still hasn't found her footing amongst the group. Illya seemed like an asshole, but Gaby was nice. Napoleon possessed such normalcy that it was almost odd. Irene's feelings on him went back and forth-did he look down on her? Did he deserve to? No. Yes. No. Depended on the time of day and the phase of the moon. Her opinion of him was like the sea: always changing, always shifting, always possessed with self-assuredness but still easily swayed.

He hangs up the phone, bidding farewell in another language (German, maybe?) and coming over to sit opposite her on the other couch. Tossing the protocol paper down onto the coffee table, Irene pushes her head off her hand and leans back like a child at church.

Despite staring at each other, neither says a word. A pregnant pause settles between the two, awkward and bulky and uncomfortable, yet Napoleon doesn't seem fazed. Whenever _she's_ in an uncomfortable situation, Irene fidgets restlessly. It's something she was chastised for in training. Napoleon, however, seems to know _exactly_ how to look at ease. It makes him seem superior; when he stays cool while she feels the need to do something with her hands.

Their gazes bore into the other's skulls, past eyeballs and into the mess of veins and brains. Napoleon does his stupid _infuriating_ half smile thing and Irene looks down at her lap instinctively. When she looks back up, he's still smirking but she's made up her mind not to shy away again.

"Should we go?" he offers.

Irene smiles this time. Let the lies begin.

* * *

The first thing that Irene Acosta discovers about art shows is that they're unrivaled in dullness. About an hour into the event, she's shoved something disgusting called a shrimp puff into her purse to avoid beration. The art isn't at all spectacular. Ugly vases and boring paintings of sad people and flowers.

She pretends she's interested, occasionally splaying a hand over her chest in a subtly-faux emotional reaction. Napoleon observes carefully, commenting in Italian to the other guests who walk by every once in a while.

"Mr. and Mrs. Monroe," an auburn-haired stick with an upturned nose greets, "I must ask, are you enjoying yourselves?"

Unlike the other guests they've talked to, this woman speaks English without a hint of an Italian accent. Suspicious.

"Very much so," Napoleon ( _Roy)_ answers. "My wife here certainly loves the Goldani." Irene does not love the Goldani. She doesn't know which one it is, but she does know that if it's one of the pieces in this room, she does not love it. At all.

"It's one of the finest pieces," the woman agrees, smiling at Irene. She returns the sentiment. "My brother takes great pride in his collection. There are a few more pieces I think you two would like," she offers, gesturing over her shoulder, which is partially covered by a dramatic red evening gown.

Napoleon smiles at her, and she spreads her lips out in a thin grin.

"I'd love that," Irene tells the woman.

They stroll over, and Napoleon makes pleasantries. Irene notes the large scar running down the lady's back, through her flesh before finding a hidden solace under the silk layers of fabric.

They pass by more statues of hands or pictures of flowers. Everything is boring, nothing worth the money surely spent on it.

The woman leads them to a door. "We have a few more pieces back here. Would you like to see?"

It would look suspicious for them to turn back now, considering how ardently Trudy Monroe admires the Goldani. Napoleon tenses, but looks at Irene. "Darling?"

He nods his head ever so slightly, and Irene, taking the sign, responds, "We'd love to."

"Fantastic! This is one of the greatest pieces-"

Irene tunes her out as she slips a hand down her thigh, patting to make sure that her gun is still secure if she needs it.

Napoleon enters the room first, while Irene is still looking down at her leg to make sure her weapon is ready to be whipped out. She doesn't get the opportunity, though, because she hears a grunt and looks up before two strong hands latch onto her shoulders and yank her inside. A metal bar swings in her direction, and she collapses onto the floor.

 **a/n:** that's a wrap for chapter 10! I've already written half of 11 (and backed it up twice) to avoid this fiasco again. I'm the worst, but I'd still love it if you could review? Thank you so much for sticking with me on this. My tumblr is elizabethbemet if you wanna talk (please come talk to me I love you all) and the blog dedicated to Irene and this fic exclusively is irene-acosta.

To celebrate 100 favorites, I've decided to start accepting oneshot prompts that I'll post on tumblr (or here, if they're longer than 1k words). The only thing I ask is that you leave a review here too!

Also, really quick, I just want to thank everybody who follows this story (all 187 followers and 100 favorite-rs), your support means everything to me.

ALSO (last thing I promise) how would you guys feel about Napoleon's perspective?


	11. borrowed time

**Word count:** 2,978

 **Warnings:** Blood, violence, swearing, some racism towards Asians, but only discussed as a past event, not something happening _in_ the story. And it's done by antagonists.

 **Chapter 10-** _Borrowed Time_

 _"_ _Song for the guilty, song for the living, song for the dead."_ –Sea Wolf

When Irene wakes up, a drop of blood is slipping down her forehead. It slides down her temple, past her cheek, and then it hangs from the bottom of her chin lazily, like a more coagulated tear. Her nerves are aflame and her brain throbs. She leans forward, and the pain she feels in her head is like rocks bouncing around her skull, banging against the sides with loud thumps and sharp scratching. Her shoulders are stiff and her hands are tied to something behind her back-a pole, a rod, something metal and cool.

The black inky spots drag themselves out of her vision, blobs of saturated navy that appear every time she turns her neck. _Hold still_ , she tells herself. _Where are you? Who else is here?_

Wait. That's not her. The CIA protocol book is whispering in her ear.

But there's a _reason_ those are protocol. She braces herself and tries to search the shadowed room for indicators of where she is. Blueish moonlight seeps in through a window. She's entangled in a mass of pipes. A boiler room, maybe?

Across the room, someone groans in pain. Irene's head shoots over in the direction and the yanking of her muscles sends splinters of pain up her neck. "Solo?" she whispers. "Napoleon. _Wake up_." She can barely make out the shape, but she hears him grunt again as he stirs awake.

"Acosta?" he answers, voice hoarse and gritty.

"We got knocked out. I think we're in a boiler room."

A moment of silence passes between the two, and then Solo remarks, " _Damn."_

Unsure of how to respond, Irene tugs at the binds around her wrists again. The rope scrapes her skin as she struggles, chafing and bristling against her skin. She needs to cut away at it to get out, so she pulls her legs up to her chest and pivots her body, kicking out foot out in a very unladylike fashion. The ropes don't prevent her from reaching up her skirt to grab a knife, and she struggles to position it in a way where she can actually cut herself free.

She begins rubbing the blade against the rope. A moment later, two loud shots ring out beyond the door. Irene and Napoleon lock eyes for a moment, and then she starts sawing faster. She can feel it fray and tries to yank it apart. _C'mon, stupid rope_ , she thinks, giving her arms a final, strong tug and unwinding the rope. "Yes!" she exclaims, jumping up off the ground and running over to help Napoleon. Her head throbs from the actions and she hisses, closing her eyes when she kneels down next to him. She opens her eyes when the pain subsides a little, and finds Solo smirking at her. Sort of. His mouth is twisted up into a weirdly teasing smile, but his eyes look worried.

Irene stares at him for a moment, then whips out the knife and starts to saw through his binds. It doesn't take as long as it took for her to get out of hers, and no sooner has she helped him up then he's kicking the door down and they're running down the halls. The walls are bare as they pass by. Someone's already stolen the paintings.

They have to stop them. Before they leave. Before they ruin the mission.

"Split up?" Irene asks Napoleon.

"I'll take left," he replies, and they take their separate paths down a fork in the hallways.

A man in a mask pops out of the corner with a mask. He draws a gun and Irene ducks, kicking her legs out and knocking him over. The bullet flies out of the barrel of the gun and through the wall with a _pop!_ Irene squeaks at the noise, and then, embarrassed, punches the man in the face and takes his gun. After she's hit him over the head with it, she grips it tight in her hand. She's got her own, of course, under the dress, but she doesn't want him to wake up and start shooting again.

Irene kicks off her shoes and hooks the backs into her fingers. Another man runs by, and she swings them at him as hard as possible, knocking him out and leaving a red scratch down his face. He screams when he goes down, a bullet below his clavicle and two long marks, like claws, over his eyelids and down his cheek.

 _Find the paintings. Find the art. Where did they—_

Irene skids to a stop in front of the side exit. Where did they _go?_

She pushes the door open and runs out into the mess of wailing police cars and confused rich people. They're gasping and speaking to authorities, and in the distance, a truck drives up and a woman with platinum blonde hair and sunglasses hops out. She scans the crowd until her face locks on Irene holding her shoes and a gun, and _this is not what's supposed to happen_ , so Irene turns on her bare heel and sprints in the opposite direction.

"Acosta!" someone calls, and _who is this person, why do they know who she is?_ "Acosta, stop." Irene jumps, tripping over her dress and wobbling in her spot, because that time, the voice was speaking calmly, directly into her ear. She's not actually there, but speaking into Irene's communications unit. Irene freezes as the woman struts over to her, calmly, with an impatient expression forming on her red-painted lips. "Get in the truck," she says. Irene recoils at the command.

"Who the hell are you?"

The woman's face scowls behind her enormous sunglasses. Irene squints at her accusatorily.

"I'm Mary. Get in the truck."

"Who do you work for?"

" _Same person as you._ Now get in the truck."

She wraps a hand around Irene's forearm, digging her manicured hand into Irene's skin, and starts dragging her over. Flailing around, Irene tries to break free, but her nails are like knives and they bite harder into her skin.

"Stop struggling. Napoleon is in the truck, and if you don't follow _right now_ I will arrest you."

Irene scowls, and then delivers a swift kick to the woman's achilles.

" _Shit!"_ she hisses, leg giving out under her for a moment. She lifts a stiletto-clad heel up and bowls over for a moment, not releasing Irene's arm for a moment.

Irene twists her arm around like they taught her— _spin, spin, spin, yank—_ until the barrel of a gun is pressed against her side.

"Get in the truck, or I swear to god I'll pull this trigger."

Irene gets in the truck.

Napoleon is sitting in the back, like the woman— _Mary—_ said, but he's conscious and there's another woman tending to the wound on his forehead. The sight of him sends waves of confusion and relief through her. He's okay. She's okay. They're okay. Unless, of course, these are just really hospitable kidnappers.

Mary crosses around the outside of the truck's back and heads into the driver's seat, where she grabs a handful of hair and pulls. Irene inhales sharply, wondering _what the hell is she doing?_ That is, until the wig slides off and reveals waves of dark hair. She ties it up into a ponytail using a ribbon from the dashboard. She turns around to wink at Napoleon, who is still lying on the ground without his suit jacket.

"Mary," he says simply, smooth as ever even when he's bleeding.

"This is the second mission you've messed up in the past two months," she remarks bluntly as she enters the key into the ignition and starts to drive down the streets of Florence. "First Rome, now this?" She clucks her tongue judgingly, but then tosses a playful smirk over her shoulder.

"As if you've been doing any better. How was that undercover op in Greece last month?"

"That was my partner's fault and _you know it._ Irons can balk all he wants about me but we both know he did it so he wouldn't need to work with an Asian girl."

Napoleon offers a mere _you-have-a-point_ shrug, before taking one of the cloths the girls offered him and dabbing his forehead with it. He asks for another, and hands it to Irene, who is still standing in the back of the truck, bracing herself on an empty crate. The adrenaline is fading, and now she feels her head begin to throb again. Taking the cloth, she wipes some of the blood from her forehead. She probably looks like a mess. Even the nurses look polished with their little pumps and tan stockings. And here she is next to them, face bloodied and hair amiss, dress tattered and feet bare.

"I'll take you in through the utility entrance of the hotel. Waverly is waiting for you in your room."

Irene's stomach begins to sink. She can't get fired. It isn't an option. Now that she thinks about it more, if she's fired, she'll have to go back and explain her disappearance, but Drew might have already reported her to authorities, which would mean that the police could be waiting, to take her back across the ocean to Cuba. To the _others_. She's been gone for so long, but Irene has no doubt they'll remember her. No doubt they'll know who she is. What she's done. Where she'll be staying. If she gets sent back, and they find her, Irene's body will be dumped in a trashcan by sundown.

She's so stuck in this contemplative state that Irene doesn't notice Mary putting her sunglasses back on and parking the truck.

"Don't worry, Solo," she says. "You won't get fired." Then she turns to Irene. "But I'd be careful with her."

Irene despises her tone, speaking about Irene in the third person while she looks right at her. Irene grew up murdering people, and even she knows that's bad manners.

"Ready?" she asks, slipping out of the truck.

Irene tosses a nervous glance at Napoleon. His expression is unreadable.

 _Goddamn spies_ , she thinks to herself. _Tell me what you're thinking._

* * *

 _The others_ are a group of men, twelve in all, who knew Irene's father. Who _depended_ on Irene's father. So when she killed Man #6, and the police stormed their house and found tokens from all the others, and Irene's father took the blame, it was they who suffered. The hero they depended on was gone, away, in jail. Locked up. Safe from their wanton hands and sharp-toothed smiles. Safe from them. Safe from her. _Safe._

* * *

Napoleon Solo met Mary Wu on a mission three years ago in Paris.

And like most of his undercover lovers, she had a lot of secrets.

Like, first of all, her wigs. They're all blonde. And she wears them all the time, to hide her black hair. Just like she wears sunglasses. To hide her face. People are far less likely to question a rich blonde woman than they are to question a petite Chinese one travelling through Europe with a technically-illegal husband.

She copes.

Napoleon has only worked with a handful of other agents. Kuryakin, Teller, Acosta, Wu, Stone, Hemmings, Morgan, and Richard. He's younger and not married, so Saunders liked to send him to the corners of the earth for missions nobody else was willing to do. Lucky for him, Napoleon has no say in the matter. Which is great for the CIA, but terrible for the CIA's enemies, and of course, for Napoleon Solo.

Sometimes he'll try to get fired. Not with threats to national security (international now, he supposes), or with terrorists; more likely with people who own too much money and would be sad to see it lost. He's not stealing anymore—not like he used to—he just…doesn't try as hard on those particular missions.

He still tries, though. Because he's always wanted to be a "hero." It's why he left his mother at sixteen and enlisted. It's why he chose the CIA over rotting in a cell. At least this way, he's doing some good.

Only, it's not really good if he gets his partner fired. Or is it? She must miss her husband. Drew something or another. She has an entire life in the States, and instead she's running around Europe with him and a gun.

Actually, Irene was not what Napoleon expected. Which was: a faithfully devoted wife on the path to redeem her criminal past.

In reality, Irene seems to have a lingering gaze and analytical eyes. He glances over at her sometimes when she isn't looking, and Irene always seems to be thinking hard about their surroundings. She doesn't mind sharing a hotel room with him, or accidentally stumbling into him with nothing but a _towel_ around her body, and she never wears the ring. Even when he makes a point of leaving the phone free in the evenings, she doesn't call him.

Napoleon asked Julie to look in the records and make sure Irene's husband was real.

(He was. He owned an insurance company and had reported her missing four times in the past two months.)

Napoleon can't seem to figure that aspect of Irene out.

Honestly, he can't seem to figure _any_ aspect of her out.

Wait—that's not true. She's yet to learn how to disguise her emotions. He knows she's afraid of Waverly and admires Gaby and _hates_ Illya.

But he doesn't know why she panicked during the mission, or how she managed to stumble out of that building alive after days of torture without food or water, because he was decently sure that most housewives wouldn't know how to do that. Hell, on an off day, he probably wouldn't be able to do it.

Napoleon _does_ know that he'll stick up for her if Waverly tries to fire her. That's the only thing about Irene Acosta he's sure about.

Waverly is angry. It hasn't been long since they met, but by the way his brow creases and he stands tensely, Napoleon can tell he's angry.

"You had one mission," he says when they step into the room. Irene is frozen in her place, looking scared and brave at once, unwavering in the sense that she refuses to flinch, but still petrified. "Solo, what was that mission?"

He sighs. "To stop the paintings from getting stolen."

"Very good. And what did you _not_ do on this mission?"

Napoleon gives him a withered look, because answering that question will get them both yelled at, but it didn't feel all that rhetorical.

"Sir, I've got my team down there gathering up evidence," Wu announces. Napoleon's almost grateful that she's pulling the attention away from them. It's a cowardly feeling, but he doesn't try to fight off the waves of relief that result from it. "They think that the heist was pulled off because of a leak in the gallery's staff."

"Any observations as to who this could be?"

Napoleon raises an eyebrow, waiting for Wu to open her mouth and answer. But it's Irene that speaks up. "It was a woman," she says confidently. "Red hair. She claimed the collection was hers, and offered to show us part of it. And it would've been unnatural if we hadn't gone. So. We followed her. And then she and a few more men knocked us unconscious and tied us up."

Her voice wavers at the end, and Napoleon finds the inside of her cheek pulled in as she chews on it. She's worried. And nervous. Does she hate her husband? What is she doing?

Waverly looks exhausted. "I've already got Kuryakin and Teller missing my calls. I can't afford to have this mission go south." He stares pointedly at them. " _Fix. It._ Or I'll send you both back where you came from."

Napoleon knows this means Saunders and the C.I.A., so he isn't too upset, but Irene's posture goes ramrod straight as soon as the words leave Waverly's lips. Her face is carefully apathetic, but the muscles are tensed just so, so Napoleon knows it isn't real.

Irene is silent all of that evening. She doesn't recoil from Mary's bantering or get that confusedly amused look she usually does when Napoleon smirks at her. Instead, she drags her heeled feet up to their room, bathes, changes into pinstripe pajamas, and lies quietly in her bed. She has the covers over her head, at first to shield herself from the light, but when he's flipped off all the switches and heads over to his own bed, she still has them protecting her.

He can hear her exhaling on the other side of the room.

Napoleon wonders what she dreams about.

 **a/n:** I am the worst, as per usual, but I'd still love a review. What were your favorite/least favorite parts? How do you guys feel about Mary? Or Napoleon's perspective? Are you interested in Irene's past? Thank you so much for sticking with me through all of this you're all the best.


	12. drifting

**a/n:** It's been approximately 8 million years since I last updated and I'm truly sorry. Things have been really hectic and I haven't had time for anything fun recently. I hope you all like this chapter, please leave a review to tell me if you did! Also, while reading, I recommend listening to the song "Alternate World" by Son Lux, or really any of their songs. Happy holidays!

 **Chapter 12** : Drifting

Irene's dreams involve a rather fantastic image of her sitting on a crescent moon. She knows it's not possible for one to sit on the moon like she is, but everything in her mind feels like a play. She doesn't feel like herself, more like a prop. Her hair is long and unstyled, hanging down her back, brushing against the skin left bare by her dress. Maybe she's a goddess. Maybe she's a monster, or a nymph, but she sits on the moon and lets her feet dangle perilously off the edge, and stares out into the night sky.

"Do you like it better out here?" a voice asks, and she tosses her gaze to her left to find Napoleon sitting next to her. He's wearing a suit but missing the jacket, and his sleeves are rolled up. The top buttons of his pressed shirt have been undone, and she can see just enough skin to make her fingers itch, but not enough to give her any real satisfaction. It figures he'd still be a tease, even in her dreams.

She considers his question, holding his gaze. "I'm far away from anyone who can chase me. I'm safe."

He's much more pensive in her mind. "Does that mean that I'm safe?"

It's a valid question. Out here, on the moon, she has her sanctuary. If she allowed him to stay out here with her, it must mean something.

"You've never done anything to prove otherwise."

"Hm."

It's quiet for a few moments, and Irene thinks that this is better. No guns, no betrayal, just her and Napoleon and the stars. She's never been a romantic but she thinks that maybe her brain is trying to tell her something.

His pinky brushes against her hand, then covers it completely. "Have you ever been in love?" The question bubbles out of her mouth without permission. She wants to take it back, it sounds petty and implicit, but she's just curious.

Dream-Napoleon shrugs. "Not really. Have you?"

Irene shakes her head. "I have only just become free. Before I was never a girl, just a punching bag. They used to kiss me but they should not have done so."

He's silent. She knows everything must be a fantasy now, if he's not talking.

There's a crash behind her, something falling off of a shelf, and Irene whips her head around, so fast that she begins to wobble and lose her balance. Napoleon's arms wrap around her suddenly, strong and comforting, and she stares out into the blackness with a question that isn't answered, because through the shadows she can't see anything.

Except him.

The warmth of his palms around her is reassuring, the pads of his fingers ghosting across the skin of her back. The tracings are chased by goosebumps.

They're too close, Irene's instincts tell her. _Too close._ But she's in space, nothing can hurt her out here. So she turns her head and looks him in the eye. If she leaned forward she could kiss him. Maybe she will.

His arms haven't left her hips, even though she's steady.

Maybe she'll kiss him now. She's thought about it before, but the haziness of her dream keeps her from remembering how many times? Once, twice? Every time she's caught a glimpse of his lips?

No. Not that much. She's never been able to afford romanticism.

She glances down at his lips and his hold on her tightens, but she doesn't feel trapped or strangled. There's a lingering feeling in her stomach that something absolutely horrible will happen if she kisses him, but she recoils from it with a nasty, ambitious, selfishness, and brings her hand up to stroke his cheek. It's rough with the faintest bit of stubble.

Napoleon chokes. A growl slips out of his throat, predatory and possessive, and she can't help but think that this is _not_ the spy she knows. This is not elegant or suave, this is instinct. She flutters her eyes shut and leans forward, presses her lips to his as an experiment.

Nothing bad is happening yet. He is pressing back against her in a manner that's pleasant, more than pleasant, it's gratifying and hungry and she feels like she's both consuming and consumed, her hands drop from his face to his shoulders, to run her thumbs over the patch of revealed skin on his chest.

His own fingers drift up and down her sides gently, but she's not fragile and she wants _more._

The moon begins to float away from underneath them, and the train on Irene's dress begins to billow out beneath her as they drift up towards the constellations. Napoleon holds her tight. _Safe._ She keeps kissing him, until she begins to quake with want and hope, and thinks that maybe if they get far enough from earth she'll never have to look over her shoulder again. Maybe they'll find a safe haven on another planet, someplace warm but not scorching, with a house and a dog and none of the others.

She's convincing herself that she deserves a love like this, full of roses and midnight strolls, with her eyes closed and Napoleon's lips spelling words out on her neck, when the world explodes. Irene jerks away suddenly, staring down at earth as flames consume it, a bomb they forgot to deprogram, a criminal who got away. _Their failures._ The explosion shakes everything, she sees the moon in the distance begin to burn and then crumble apart, and she loses her grip on Napoleon's hand. He calls her name but she _can't look away_ as everything disintegrates. She can't do this. She does not deserve a love like that, it is a distraction, a doorway to failure.

A rocket flies across the sky and pauses next to her. The door opens, and a hand reaches out and grabs her by the fabric of her dress. She knows that hand, with that scar. The others have found her. A dozen arms reach out to her, smothering her and pulling her hair and tearing her dress and clawing her neck. They've found her. This is _her fault._ Her failures.

Napoleon has begun to drift away, and Irene catches a glimpse of him through the space ship's window. It's a punch to a gut. She couldn't even save him.

She's savaged by the hands. They're hot like irons and pointed like knives and they scrape across her skin until she's not even a person anymore. _I was never a girl, just a punching bag._

How could she think that things have changed?

Irene shudders, shuts her eyes, wills her soul back into her body, and then wakes up with a gasp.

She's in a hotel room in Florence. She is a C.I.A. operative working for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. The man in the bed opposite her is named Napoleon Solo, and though he is safe, he is a distraction. If she is distracted, she will be send back to Cuba.

The solution is clear: she will not be distracted any longer.

Though the moon is still in the sky, the sun on the other side of the world, she throws the covers off her body and shuffles through the briefcase on the desk until she finds the blueprints of the museum and a pen and a legal pad.

Irene begins to lay her plans. She would die before going back. Not after everything she did to escape.


End file.
